


I, Vampire (II)

by Rector



Series: I, Vampire [2]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: F/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft-centric, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 100,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4347281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part II</p><p>Mycroft Holmes sits at the epicentre of the British Government, the man at the secret heart of power whose quest is to defeat all that dare threaten his self-appointed national responsibility. He has held the role of secret defender for a very long time; as a Chief of Boudica's armies, as spy to the courts of medieval Europe and éminence grise in WWII. </p><p>Warrior, protector, vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which things are brought more or less up to date.

 

He sat, deep in thought, running the long spool of his life past his eyes. It was an exhausting process, enough to weary any normal person into sleep long ago, but he rarely slept anymore and when he did, it was a listless shadow of sleep barely worth the name. Fortunately, slumber, like many other things in his existence was something he no longer required in the conventional sense. And so he sat in this early night, still, silent and unsleeping as he did almost every night, though it might as well have been the middle of the day for all it mattered. With his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his vision was focused on the murky haze of infinity and while his eyes saw only the immediate darkness, his mind perceived the vast trail of years, of the decades and centuries that had brought him to this year, this month, this hour.

It was precisely two thousand years ago to this day that he had died.

Mycroft eased his posture and stretched a little in his chair. Though dead, he still felt discomfort when sitting too long in the same position, albeit more a psychological ache than one of poor circulation. On this day of all days, it had become impossible to keep his mind from casting itself back to his death and dwelling, self-indulgent though it was, on the events which killed him.

He was alone of course, all but the most critical work farmed out and his entire current team of brilliant technical experts, razor-sharp analysts and eagle-eyed support staff deliberately out of the way for once, and none of them due back before the following morning. This left him quiet in the eternal semi-shade of his subterranean office with a bottle of pricy scotch and hours of uninterrupted memories. And while the long train of his history had crossed some unpredictable terrain, the memories were mostly good, especially the most recent ones; good people, good results. Mostly. Of course, there were things that hadn't gone at all according to plan, but then, he was almost only human, wasn't he? He'd had solid people beside him for the last few years; worthy, dependable types who not only knew their jobs inside-out, but who had, over the years, demonstrated a rather touching loyalty. All those specialists he recalled working with were long gone now, of course, including Jude Roberts whom he'd kept as his deputy for far longer than was wise. Come the end, not even Jude was able to explain the un-aging, unchanging existence of his director; and, as with all the others before him, Kit's nephew was eventually and reluctantly moved on to higher things in a city far to the North of London. There would be no reason to ever see him again, a sad but unavoidable development. Mycroft sighed softly. Perhaps he'd been here too long himself. Perhaps it was time for him to think of moving on as well; undergoing one of the great upheavals his life had seemed to need every fifty or so years.

Yet despite the changing of the guard, the last few years had been good to him, he had to admit. He now had an immensely expansive base of power at the very heart of the British Government, dug in so very deep and so very unobtrusively that almost nobody other than himself had any real clue as to the actual extent of his influence and authority. It had taken decades, but Mycroft had insinuated delicate tendrils of control throughout the entire establishment; there was virtually no part of the British institution of governance that he was unable to command or at least affect in some way. Knowing that oversight of so many classified and critical projects would eventually fall under his personal observation would have been more than enough to terrify a normal man. But then, Mycroft acknowledged, a little dryly, he no longer really qualified.

Pouring himself a second helping of the endlessly smooth Glenlivet, he sipped as if tasting its history; thoughtfully, carefully. Deliberately.

It was ironic, really, that in some respects today might be considered his birthday ... _deathday_... of sorts, for tomorrow was anniversary of a not altogether dissimilar nature. January the sixth. _Sherlock's birthday_ , his thirty-fourth, to be precise. It would be nice to think the boy might find it in himself to make it home for the evening, if only for Kit's sake; she did miss him so and was always hopeful to see him. But Mycroft doubted Sherlock would be sufficiently sober to make it anywhere after the pharmacopic bender he'd no doubt been on. The combination of uppers and downers he took simply to try and tame the ferocity of his mind's relentless demands was a tragedy in the greatest sense.

Sighing, Mycroft swirled the amber liquid around the glass. The nightmares Sherlock had had as a child, that Kit had always said would be best treated with cuddles rather than prescriptions. But nothing other than the sedatives had seemed to work and Mycroft hadn't been able to bear the child's distress. Well, they were all paying for it now. Sherlock's insatiable desire for knowledge and experimentation, along with a childhood familiarisation of effective medications, had led the growing teen and finally the young man down ever darker avenues, trying anything and everything, because he could and because he had decided the consequences of his actions were less important than the knowledge of them. Mycroft had had several of his staff checking CCTV feed since before Christmas Eve trying to catalogue any recent sightings of the young Holmes, but so far, their efforts had gone unrewarded. And now it was a little too late to do anything. He might as well go home, share a cup of tea with Kit and do some work.

The journey to the Pall Mall house took no more time than usual; his current Jaguar melting the minutes away between his Whitehall headquarters and his private sanctuary giving him little enough space to put his thoughts to rights before he was at his front door and once more within the comforting familiarity of the home he'd kept for more than three hundred years. Walking directly into the kitchen, Mycroft expected to see Kitta Penderic seated at the kitchen table waiting for him, still as hale and hearty in her early eighties as she had been in her late fifties. Their evening meetings now as entrenched in each of their routines as was the sun in the midday sky. After twenty-five years, she still had him wondering what exotic combination of temptations she'd have ready for him in his evening libation; Mycroft paused, stopping short in the doorway to the kitchen. Kit was not alone.

"Happy New Year, _Brother_ ," Sherlock, black-suited and excessively cheery, lounged back in his usual chair, the same one he'd used all the years he'd lived here as a child. "Belated good wishes I admit, though the thought, apparently, is what counts." Leaning forward as if he were still in the habit of sitting at the table every night, he stretched out a hand towards the steaming cup of tea that had clearly just been poured for him.

Mycroft permitted a civil smile to curve the outer corners of his mouth. To maintain the _fa_ _ç_ _ade_ of Mycroft's humanity, Sherlock had long ago agreed to assume the public role of younger sibling rather than ward, though of late, there seemed to be an undercurrent of derision whenever he used the term. That Sherlock's natural parents were long dead and the remnants of his few relatives were scattered across Europe made the small deception virtually impenetrable. Nobody would ever be likely to discover the truth ... unless Sherlock told them, of course.

Kit was seated across from the young Holmes as she always had from the very first day she'd decided to throw in her lot with the both of them. She smiled, pleased. "I've managed to persuade him to stay for some dinner," she grinned at her success. "Makes a nice change to be able to cook for someone other than myself, it does," she added. "But sit down now and have your usual and catch your breath," she said, standing slowly upright, her body not as limber as it once was.

Assessing the thin, dark-haired younger man, Mycroft saw that, while he looked entirely too pale, wan, almost, Sherlock did not evidence the deathly washed-out pallor of those stricken by an excess of illegal stimulants. Nor, it appeared, judging by the clarity of his eyes and the absence of shadows beneath them, as well as Sherlock's general demeanour, had he indulged in Class A drugs for several weeks. This was probably the longest time Mycroft had seen his erstwhile ward free of his ravening narcotic compulsion for a very long time. "You're looking well," he said quietly, slipping into the kitchen chair that, over the last quarter-century, had become entirely his. "Almost normal."

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded, smiling faintly and lifting his cup in salute. "I might say the same about you," he sipped the tea. "I am unexpectedly in splendid health, so much so that I felt the urge to offer my felicitations of the season while I was in the vicinity."

"Sherlock, my _dear_ child," Kit sighed heavily as she shook her head. "You never could lie worth sixpence, as far as I was ever concerned, why on earth would you imagine you can do it any better now? What is it you need?" she said, meeting his gaze reprovingly at the same moment she lifted up her arm for Mycroft to see the heavy gold bracelet newly clasped around her wrist. Of thickly plaited bands of gold, the adornment was essentially a thick strip of metal but of such luxurious quality that its very simplicity was a statement unto itself. "A belated Christmas present, he says," she commented, fixing her dark eyes on a much lighter pair and raising her eyebrows in a faintly chiding manner. "As if he should be wasting his money on something like this," she sniffed, pouring Mycroft's usual glass of crystal-clear spirit, pushing the silver tray closer towards him. Tonight's extravaganza consisted of shaved mint and frozen pineapple spears, well-sprinkled with Tabasco. Mycroft smiled down at the glass of vodka. In all the years Kit had been with him, she'd never failed to surprise, either with her imagination, her determination to look after him, or her handling of Sherlock.

"Indeed," he watched as Kitta loaded his tall glass with a selection of garnish, allowing her to pour icy alcohol over it all, right to the brim. It wasn't so much a glass of vodka as it was an experience in postmodern art. "I can't recall the last time you took it upon yourself to visit us at the New Year, so obviously ..." Mycroft allowed his eyes to look the younger man up and down, "abstemious," he added, narrowing his eyes and allowing an expression of overt suspicion to take up residence on his face. "Despite the fact that it is extremely gratifying to see you so ... invigorated, I still wonder what other rationale might lie beneath this well-timed call. Is this visit professional or social?"

Rubbing the end of his nose, Sherlock made a slight face. "Bit of both, really," he said. "As you know, I've been doing a fair bit of work with the Met these last few months."

"On and off," Mycroft nodded. "Yes, of course I know, and I find the situation wholly admirable, as long as you are able to maintain your current ... temperance."

"Oh, the drugs, you mean?" Sherlock sipped his tea again. "You know I only toy with those in an attempt to alleviate the crushing boredom of cerebral inactivity," he sighed softly, sitting back and linking his fingers across his chest. "But since I've been able to tackle a few cold-cases I managed to persuade one of their inspectors to let me try, I've found my mind is much more controllable," he shrugged a shoulder. "Music hath charms to sooth a savage breast," his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. "Apparently, my mind finds murder most soothing."

"You've been working with ..." Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily, seeing in his memory a name on a file. "Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Serious Crimes division," he nodded, tasting the extravaganza Kit had laid out for his delectation. It was ... intriguing. "I hear your endeavours have been rather successful."

"Are you _still_ keeping tabs on me, Mycroft?" Sherlock replaced his cup with a loud clink as Kitta got up to give them the impression of privacy.

"I'll just leave you two have a nice peaceful chat then, while I get dinner, shall I?" she murmured, smiling to herself as she continued to admire the gleaming gold at her wrist. Despite their entirely different world-views, both Holmes the Elder and Younger were far too much alike for there ever to be perfect peace between them. She'd learned long ago that they relished the ability to rail at one another in their own way, no matter how vitriolic it might sound to an outsider. It was a mad sort of understanding, even a pleasurable one and Kit had no doubt that if push came to shove, each of them would gladly sacrifice their all for the other.

"About how long do we have before you'll be ready to serve dinner, Kit?" Mycroft swivelled in his seat, his eyes remaining on Sherlock's face, alert for the slightest intent that might be written there.

"At least half-an-hour, if you want to go off and have a quick game of soldiers," Kitta chortled as she stood at the sink peeling a couple of large potatoes. "Come back when you're ready."

The eyes of both men met as Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly. "I have something for you," he said, standing and leaving the kitchen, taking his drink with him.

Abandoning his tea, Sherlock made to follow, detouring at the last second to walk across to the sink, where he ducked his head and gave Kit a swift kiss on the cheek. "We never _played_ soldiers," he corrected her. "It was always a serious battle strategy analysis, run through in real time," he added. "Though I still remember that first momentous occasion when Mycroft crawled around on the floor with me," a faint smile curved his mouth. "What does he want now?"

"Best you go and see for yourself, I 'spect," Kitta ushered him away. "I'll give you a gong when dinner's ready, same as always."

Giving her shoulder a squeeze, Sherlock smiled again before striding out through the door on Mycroft's heels. It was easy to work out which way the older man had gone; apart from the echo of his footsteps on the carpeted floor, Sherlock knew they would automatically be heading for the Library. Whenever Mycroft had anything to show anyone at all, it was inevitably in the Library.

Yet though the big double-doors were opened, there was no sign of him among his precious books and _objet_. Until Sherlock realised that the secret door beneath the large painting was also open, a darker shadow on a dark wall. _Interesting_. So the something that Mycroft had for him was sufficiently special to be kept hidden. With an intrigued twist to his mouth, Sherlock ducked his head and stepped through the beckoning doorway and down into the carefully-guarded secret that lay beneath the house. Since the very first time he'd accidently found his way in here nearly three decades earlier, Sherlock could count the number of times he'd been in here on the fingers of both hands. Not that he'd ever been forbidden, _per se_ , but that it had always felt like an intimate form of trespass and something that even his usual curiosity fell shy of.

Mycroft had turned all the lights on as he entered his age-old sanctum; he wanted no shadows down here for this. This event called for a certain amount of visual appreciation. He turned as Sherlock caught up with him.

"Keeping secrets again. Mycroft?" Sherlock looked around the place. He'd not been down here for several years, but the mystery of the clandestine retreat never failed to entrance him, though there seemed to be distinctly less clutter than he remembered. Not only were quite a few of the shelves and cabinets empty, but several of the racks of timeworn uniforms and coats had gone as well. "A little early to be spring cleaning?"

"Merely a removal of items too far gone to be salvaged," Mycroft lifted one hand in a dismissive gesture. "Age may not weary me, nor the years condemn," he smiled fleetingly. "But unfortunately, such cannot be said of my collection," he looked around at several empty shelves; a slight melancholy to his words though his expression was wholly pragmatic. "Even with all the care I take to preserve my history, not even I can entirely hold back time." He made a rueful face. "But that's not what I had to show you," he said, turning and lifting a package from atop a nearby chest of drawers. "This is," he added, handing it over. "A little late, but as you've said yourself; it's the thought that counts. Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes," he paused. "Or perhaps I should say, _Happy Birthday,_ Brother Mine."

Glancing between the expensively-wrapped package and Mycroft's face, Sherlock's brow furrowed. The size, weight and relative dimensions suggested it was a briefcase of some description, though perhaps a shade more in length than convention dictated. Tapping his knuckles on a hard exterior that lay immediately beneath the wrapping seemed to confirm this. But why would Mycroft give him a briefcase, or something _in_ a briefcase, and why save it for Christmas, a supposedly special event in itself? An unusual gift, of sorts, in that case.

"Perhaps if you deduced rather less and unwrapped rather more, you might answer all your questions," Mycroft folded his arms in moderately good humour.

"And where's the fun in that?" Sherlock shook the case gently, but whatever it held was either most securely fixed, or there was additional padding within. Yet the weight was minimal, thus whatever _was_ inside, could not be terribly large or terribly heavy. What would someone like Mycroft give him for a Christmas present that was so special it needed to be hidden away down here? Other than a sword, it wouldn't be a weapon, and the package was entirely the wrong shape for a sword, or even an ancient gun, come to that. Nor a book, either, for such a thing would surely not be presented in such a manner, and Mycroft was the great collector of books, not he. Nor would it be clothing or jewellery or fine art, for the same reason. Narrowing his eyes in thought, Sherlock stood, holding the case between his outstretched hands.

"If you insist on waiting until next Christmas to open the damn thing, then I'll have time to get you a second gift," Mycroft spoke archly as he reached for his neglected vodka.

"Oh, very well," Sherlock growled, his curiosity finally getting the better of him, holding the packaged securely in one arm and ripping the expensive wrapping off with the other. As he has assumed, a longish, attaché case of black aluminium, with a single, six-dial combination lock, all the dials currently set to zero. The case was locked, of course. Sherlock smiled. Though Mycroft clearly wanted the gift to be opened immediately, he wasn't going to take all the fun out of the situation. "Might be 25-12-10," he mused, "but as I cannot imagine even you being _that_ prosaic, and given your previous comment, then you'd most likely expect me to go with my birthdate," he said, lifting his fingers, only to pause, thoughtfully. "But you'd know exactly what I'd be thinking, and because you fancy yourself quite the evil mastermind, you'd find it impossible to resist at least a small detour into the irritating," he paused again. "Which means a reversal at the very minimum," he added, rapidly thumbing the six dials to 76-01-06. The very solid-sounding lock gave a substantial click before springing open beneath his fingers. What lay within, carefully embraced by a custom-shaped, dark foam interior and gleaming in the subtly overhead lighting, was a very old violin.

Golden yellow wood streaked with the darkness of age and use around the neck and the fret holes. The faintest scent of violin-polish reached his nose as Sherlock, hardly daring to breathe, lifted the instrument delicately from its black nest.

"This is a genuine Bergonzi," he murmured, turning the thing over and over in his fingertips, stroking down the back of the delicately formed instrument with a lover's touch. "A number of highly considered experts rate him above Stradivarius and Amati and ..." his voice faded into silence. "It's exquisite," he whispered, his eyes flitting from one point of observation to the next. "Sublime." He looked across to a pair of dark blue eyes housed in a frame now only fractionally taller than his own. "Why?" he asked. "This must have cost a literal fortune; what's to stop me whipping around to Christies and snagging what must be the best part of a million quid, if not more?" Sherlock's eyebrows rose, his gaze unmoving.

"And do you think that's a likely prediction of your actions, Sherlock?" Mycroft's smile was benign and unaffected. "If it's only money you want, you know you but have to say."

"This isn't one of the named Bergonzis," Sherlock muttered, ignoring the comment, his eyes strafing the glowing instrument in his hands. "I know them all, and none have been on the open market since the Pennington violin sold last year in New York for almost five million dollars," he paused again, a sharply breathless quality to his words. "And while this is not perhaps one of his top echelon, it's not far off," he added, almost feverishly. "It's a stupendous piece of art ..." he looked up again, his eyes wide. "Why?"

"Because I knew you would be the one to appreciate it most," Mycroft's smile grew softer. "Because I wanted to give you something you'd never forget for the rest of your life, no matter what," he added, raising his hand slowly, awkwardly, allowing it to rest briefly on Sherlock's shoulder for a second, no more. "Because," he blinked and looked away.

"Then you will have no excuse to avoid accepting this, will you?" Still cradling the violin in one hand, Sherlock reached inside his jacket pocket with the other to withdraw a small, oblong-ish packet. Holding it lightly between a finger and thumb, he held it out for Mycroft to take. "I knew it had to be yours as soon as I saw it," he said. "While not in the same league as a Bergonzi, I think it might do."

Frowning, Mycroft accepted the package almost reluctantly, holding it in the palm of one hand. Measuring no more than three inches by four, it felt unusually solid against his skin. Wrapped and tied in the finest kid suede, Mycroft weighed it carefully. An ounce or two, no more, thus unlikely to be metallic and it lacked the heft of stone. Other than cufflinks and a tie-pin, he wore no jewellery as a rule, therefore it was unlikely to be a jeweller's box; besides, it felt more solid than that. Wood, perhaps? But why would Sherlock give him such a thing, so meticulously wrapped? Therefore, not wood, but something else. Something solid, with a slight weight, but weighty enough. Something neither of metal nor stone nor of jewels or gold, yet still wrapped with the very greatest of care ... he felt his eyebrows rise of their own accord. There were other things that satisfied these metrics.

"If you insist on waiting until next Christmas to open the damn thing, then I'll have time to get you a second gift," Sherlock stole Mycroft's words just as he stole his half-empty glass, taking a swig and screwing up his face as the high-proofed liquor burned through him. " _Good grief ._.. how can you continually _drink_ this stuff?" he manfully refrained from choking.

Ignoring Sherlock's pathetic protestations, and with his frown edging into the mildly suspicious, Mycroft nevertheless turned his attention to the small suede bow, tugging at it carefully until it gave way, allowing him to unfold the remaining leather to reveal ...

"Dear _god_ ," he exhaled slowly. "The book of _Jardin d'Eve_ , created by order of French monarch Carl IV by Parisian masters in 1325," he hissed, fingertips caressing the tiny silver snaps that kept the miniature volume closed. Unclipping them with the touch of a fingernail, the triple gold edged pages and the consummately beautiful illustrations shone in the overhead lights. "It's magnificent," he bit his lip as the diminutive art work opened at his touch. "How on earth did you find this?" he demanded, his eyes searching the younger man's face before immediately returning to feast on the jewel before them. "And how did you secure it? These things are pursued by some of the most determined and wealthy collectors in the world ..." Mycroft hesitated. "And Kit's bracelet," he said, unwilling to ask but needing to know. "How?"

Taking another sip of Mycroft's vodka before handing it back, Sherlock gave a one-shouldered, nonchalant shrug as he refocused on the Bergonzi. "I have friends in low places," he said. "Plus, a couple of the old cases I managed to solve had substantial rewards attached to them," he made a face. "Not the reason I solved them, of course, but they refused to give the money to charity, so I thought I would, yet then I remembered the date, so ..." a second shrug. "It seems I might actually be able to make a reasonable living at it," a noncommittal _moue_ shaped his mouth as a third small shrug rolled his shoulders.

 _Three_ shrugs? Mycroft tore his fascinated attention away from the book and paid proper consideration to the boy's face, for in his heart, Sherlock would always be the child he could never father. Usually the most articulate of vocal peers, suddenly the young Holmes seemed reduced to the language of mute physicality. "Make a reasonable living at what?" Mycroft's gaze wandered back and fore, his observational skills directed impartially and for once with clinical intensity upon that most cherished of humans. Was the boy ... _self-conscious?_

"I have become a Detective," Sherlock squared his shoulders and stood tall, almost as tall as his surrogate sire. "A _Consulting_ Detective, in fact," he added. "I invented the job; there is none other."

"The work you've been doing with the police has become that important to you?" Mycroft received an answer to his own question from the look on Sherlock's face.

"It has, Mycroft," the first signs of a smile reshaped the narrow, pale features. "When I'm working on a case, a _real_ case that utterly baffles all others, I feel my mind expanding, I could almost swear I feel my blood surging through my veins," his expression said it all. Mycroft recognised the signs of immutable fascination; he knew the sensation only too well. How easy it was to become so entranced by seemingly insurmountable challenges as to feast on their very possibility. He sighed knowingly, nodding again.

"And how do they treat you, these police?" he asked, wondering. "Don't they find you a little ... threatening?"

Wrinkling his nose and reminding Mycroft of the nine-year old he once was, Sherlock waggled a hand back and forth, the universal sign for _uncertain_. "They're all pretty incompetent, of course," he said, dismissively, "though DI Lestrade is probably the least incapable of the lot; he's able to ask some fairly probing questions even if he can't see the answers right in front of him. Most of the others are quite beyond the pale. Utterly useless."

"Then let us return upstairs so that I may better examine the wondrous new addition to my collection, while Kit explores a new reality of cooking while wearing that great golden handcuff you've bought her, and you might possibly consider playing us a piece or two to test the mettle of your own recent acquisition, hmm?" Mycroft paused, smiling quietly. "I think I have a bottle of the Krug Private Cuvée hidden away, and this does appear to be a time for a celebration of sorts, and you can enthral us with your lurid adventures in the company of the Metropolitan constabulary."

There was the distant sound of an ancient brass gong being struck; Kit's age-old call to dinner. Returning the precious Bergonzi to its case, the two Holmes men filed their way through the still densely-packed basement and back up into the golden-lit library.

Sherlock found he was smiling; it had been a long time since he'd felt this comfortable in his own skin. Perhaps, after all, he'd finally discovered something that might occupy his whole mind. It would be a first, if nothing else. Stepping into the warm fug of the old kitchen, Kit was just about to serve them up a pair of steaks that would supply his iron needs for a month.

"Still trying to fatten me up?" Sherlock sat in his usual spot, smiling up at the indefatigable old woman.

"Well, you always did get a mite wan-like this time of the year," she observed, taking her own seat and smiling up at Mycroft who'd just popped the cork of a very expensive bottle of bubbly. "And I need to keep my own strength up if I have to start carting this thing around," she grinned, flouncing her golden bangle. "What are we celebrating?" she asked, surprised but entirely happy to take the flute of champagne Mycroft handed her.

"Murder," Sherlock clinked their glasses together and grinned.

###

Though it was getting late, Ellis B. Wilde sat on the edge of an opened packing crate in the main loading dock at the back of the Museum of London in Aldersgate on the London Wall. In one hand, she held a steaming mug of tea; in the other, an eighteenth-century military cocked hat, complete with faded red rosette. It had been well worn and could not possibly join any of the collections without at least a basic restoration, but it was a unique and fabulous-looking thing. Putting it back down on the case next to hers, she picked up a boxed pair of golden epaulets, frayed and tarnished though they might be, they were undoubtedly spectacular. " _How_ many boxes, did you say?" she asked, turning her head slightly to meet the eyes of Ron Oliver, Senior Curator of the museum's Military Dress Collection.

"About twenty of the big boxes with the uniforms, and then at least another dozen or so with a whole range of kit accessories; field gear, ceremonial dress... even a small collection of battle honours and pennants," he added, sounding entirely dazed by the unexpected windfall. "They were all stacked up against the rear delivery entrance as neat as you like when we opened up early this morning," he blinked several times and shook his head. "I know we've just had Christmas, but even I can't work out how anyone could have gotten around the back with what must have been a fairly decent-sized van to cart all these boxes," he shook his head again. "Not an alarm, not a sign of breaking in, nothing," Ron Oliver shrugged mightily.

"Don't you have to have CCTV these days to keep the insurers happy? All the other museums do," Ellis picked up the dark felt hat again, smoothing out the stiffer silk of the coiled rosette beneath a gentle index finger.

"Yeah, and that's _another_ thing that's so strange about the whole situation," Ron's voice took on a more worried tone. "We've got six of the ruddy cameras out the back yet every single one of them went offline between midnight and two o'clock last night," he sighed heavily. "Something bloody odd's going on around here, I can tell you."

Ellis nodded thoughtfully. Breaking and entering into a museum these days for the purpose of theft was an unfortunate occasional reality. Breaking and entering for the purpose of _gifting_ was a distinctly different thing. "Has anything like this happened before?" she asked, sipping her tea and lifting the lid on another box a couple of feet away. The rather bedraggled sleeve of a gold-frogged coat-cuff caught her eye. "And is it all British?"

"We get small bequests all the time," Ron still sounded a little stunned. "But never anything on this scale and yes," he exhaled gustily. "Everything I've looked at is British military; some of it as far back as the sixteen-hundreds. Sodding _amazing_ , is what it is, though I doubt if we'll ever know where it all came from."

Nibbling at the edge of her mug, Doctor Ellis Wilde, Research Historian and now an impossibly intrigued citizen of London, decided that particular piece of knowledge would be a rather nice thing to have.


	2. in which we learn more of recent events.

 

Gregory Joseph Lestrade sat behind his desk, finger and thumb thoughtfully tugging at his lower lip. He stared down at a single page of a crime scene report in all its bizarre glory laid out on his desk and contemplated the possibility of a surreptitious stroll outside for a swift smoke and a slow coffee. The brew they served inside The Yard was perfectly reasonable, as was the tea and all the rest of the stuff they dished up in the cafeteria; but the compulsory no-smoking dictats made it impossible for any self-respecting, law-abiding smoker to scam a crafty ciggie on the sly anymore. He sighed, sadly. It was enough to put a man off his feed. And not that the bloody patches he stuck on his arm every morning made the slightest bit of difference to the craving ... that first great rush of dry pleasure as the smoke rode into the lungs and made all the colours brighter and the brain just that little bit faster. That it also made the place stink and left him with an increasingly foul taste in his mouth hadn't even been a problem until he'd seriously contemplated giving the damn things up for the first time in his adult life. And so he made do with a patch during the day, or, as was increasingly the case, patches plural. Christ only knew what the big Pharma companies actually put into the damnable things, but even on a good day, a single patch didn't really cut it anymore.

And today could not, by any reasonable stretch of the imagination, be classified as a _good_ day. This new and violent case was both horrific and unsettling. On top of which, he had two men down with a raging winter bug that seemed determined to decimate half of London and was facing the imminent arrival of some classic January weather involving snow, black ice and little excuse to leave the office. There was also a fresh pile of annual performance appraisals for a round dozen of the lower grades in the Serious Crimes Division; a handful of emails, each bearing an ominous assortment of attached documents, and if that weren't actually enough to make a grown man weep, there was the increasingly unexplainable phenomena that was Sherlock Holmes.

 _Sherlock_ _Holmes_. Caucasian male. Early thirties, English. Spoke like he'd been to Cambridge which, apparently, he had. Byronesque hair and dressed to kill, with fancy-pants suits and a great big coat that screamed of the theatre. The man had an attitude to match the coat and had succeeded in pissing off virtually the entire squad in record-breaking time. And what kind of name was _Sherlock_ , in any case? Donovan had nearly decked the guy the last time they'd gone head-to head over the little matter of her personal life. Anderson went into a Victorian swoon at the mere thought of having to offer up any form of forensic support to such a rank outsider, and the rest of his people seemed torn between wanting to chuck Holmes repeatedly in the Thames, or banging him up in the cells for a few weeks for being an utterly charmless dick.

 _However_ ... and it was a neon-bright, elephant-in-the-room-sized _however_ , the man, despite his unorthodox manner, eccentric dress-sense and Thespian-style lust for drama, was actually able to solve crimes. Brilliantly and almost supernaturally so, in fact. Greg wasn't entirely sure just how the younger man managed to work out all the problems inside his head, which is how he seemed to be doing it, but over the last six months the once-embarrassing backlog of unsolved and dormant-by-default cases had been fairly rapidly thinned down, a couple of them more than ten years old. The ratio of closed to incoming new cases seemed to be improving on a daily basis and his team were now being mentioned in dispatches as having one of the best solve-rates in London. And it wasn't that Holmes was even a visibly good detective; he'd certainly not completed any of the conventional recognised programs of study or training to be one, nor had he come up through any police force, either domestic or foreign, in any shape or form. Nor did he seem to follow a single one of the tried-and tested police procedural forms of criminal investigation. It was baffling how he did it all, really. Except that he clearly did … whatever it was that he did, and did it repeatedly and extremely well. Of course, there were some seemingly enormous gaps in the process, as if Sherlock's brain was running ten steps ahead of the rest of him and going too fast to pause and explain; it clearly frustrated him immensely to have to stop and justify the leaps his thinking sometimes took. _Deduction_ , he'd called it. Holmes had even set up a little website called _The Science of_ _Deduction_. Greg had taken a bit of a look the other night. Some of the things there had made his hair curl. There was even a section on the speed of maggot-development.

But the guy was _really_ smart, wasn't he? It didn't take a genius to recognise the fact, and clearly, this cleverness played a major role in the way he did the working-out of a crime in his head. Lestrade tugged a little harder on his lip. When he'd been in school doing Maths homework, you always had to show your calculations on one side of the sheet so the teacher knew that you'd actually worked out the problem and not simply guessed lucky. And that was really the problem with Holmes, wasn't it? That he seemed to land on the right answer every time without the slightest indication of how he'd worked it all out. On top of that, as if being a genius smart-arse wasn't enough, Sherlock was one of the most socially inept and irritating pains in the rear he'd ever met. _And yet_ ... Lestrade sat back in his creaking old office chair, folding his arms. _And yet_ , even with everything going against him, watching Holmes in full spate was an inspiring sight. How he was able to take nothing more than a bent bit of grass and construct an entire scenario involving acrobatic midgets, Russian caviar smugglers and the shooting demise of the head of the local Japanese Yakuza, was nothing short of amazing. Like him or not, understand him or not, Holmes was able to get the job done and that, in the final analysis, was what mattered most. If only he didn't always have to be the most openly offensive sod in the room ... Greg decided to head out for the smoke and coffee anyway. If any of his team tried to talk him out of it, he'd simply mutter Sherlock's name and a path would open for him like Moses facing the Red Sea.

Besides, the man was due back in this afternoon to have a look at two particularly trying cold-cases that really needed closure, for the sake of the families involved, if nothing else. Not that that would make the slightest difference to Sherlock, who tended to ridicule any evidence that was not of a precisely empirical nature. You only had to look at him to know for a fact that there had been nothing, absolutely nothing in his entire life that could not be explained in a coldly logical and scientific way. Greg shook his head, almost bemoaning the fact that he couldn't head down the pub before the meeting with Holmes; drinking on the job was rarely smiled upon, but a couple of good pints and a few smokes would have prepared him nicely. _Ah well_.

Walking quickly out towards the main entrance of the squad room, but not so quickly as to attract the undesired attention of anyone who might ask him to do something, Lestrade made a successful escape and followed this up with a speedy exit from the tall, glass, post-war building that was home to London's Metropolitan Police. Down a nearby side-street and quickly into a small, dimly lit coffee shop that was the haunt of Met personnel who didn't want to talk to any other Met personnel, even if they were sitting at the next table. In a City-wide though unspoken agreement, this place was off-limits to shop talk; you just didn't, alright?

Finding an empty two-seat table near one of the open doors, Greg waved several raised fingers in a particular series of signals that had the Barista nodding and the coffee-grinder going in seconds flat. Sitting half in and half out of the café, Lestrade knew he was just sufficiently in the right to be able to light up. If anyone complained, not that anyone would, then all he had to do was shift his seat ten inches closer to the pavement to be entirely outside. The first nicotine-rich inhale of cigarette smoke was everything he knew it would be and he felt himself relaxing immediately, leaning back as he waited for his little cup of aromatic goodness to arrive.

"Ah, _Inspector_ , how convenient. I was on my way to see you," Sherlock Holmes stopped abruptly on the pavement not feet away. Hands in the deep pockets of the inevitable greatcoat, a low-blue scarf looped around his neck, the younger man looked both surprised and pleased to have so easily located his prey.

Momentarily stony-faced, Lestrade stared at the table-top as the waiter brought out his double-shot espresso. This was not the way policemen had their coffee-breaks in the movies, though, he had to admit, London in January wasn't exactly LA. "Hello, Sherlock," he lifted his eyes to the newcomer's face as he took the spare seat at the table and made another air-sign to the Barista who had the grinder growling out the new order almost instantly. Everyone who knew DI Lestrade ensured he was looked after. This usually meant that any guest of DI Lestrade was equally favoured. After pouring in a couple small paper twists of sugar, Greg sipped the deliciously pungent black liquid. The double-hit of nicotine and caffeine sent his worries into immediate capitulation, and not even the arrival of the Chief Constable could have dented the resultant _bonhomie_. "What brings you down to this neck of the woods?"

"The last two cases were moderately interesting," the tall, dark-haired man sat, waiting until the waiter left his coffee and departed. "But insufficiently far-reaching to keep me _really_ occupied," he said, leaning forward. "Working on your cold-cases is, I admit, more intriguing than I had imagined, but there was a limit to my effectiveness, simply because everything was already _over_ ; everything had been _done_. All that was really required was to rearrange the pieces and come up with the correct answer; no great intellectual effort at all," he frowned, sipping his flat white. "I need something fresh and new and challenging," he met Lestrade's gaze. "Give me something that's current, that's different," he said. "Something that nobody else wants to touch or that's time-critical," he added, watching Greg's expression. He paused, eyes narrowing a fraction. "Something that you may already _have_ , in fact," he murmured, leaning even further forward, elbows on the small table between them, his eyes widening as the police officer remained silent and pokerfaced. "Something that you have right now, which is either so bizarre or so repulsive that not only have you said nothing to your team, but you've come out here specifically to psyche yourself up with these mild stimulants before you felt ready to bring any of them in," he added, his face bright with expectation. "What is it?" he demanded. " _Tell me_ ... let me in on this from the very start! _You must!_ "

Clearly, Holmes was unaware of the unspoken rule about no shop-talk. Greg sipped his espresso, kept his face expressionless and refused to be drawn. Though Sherlock had certainly proved himself to be an incredible source of information and analytical thinking, the new case was so inexplicable, that Greg was still wondering about the best way to bring his own people into it, let alone an outsider. Having an amateur sleuth in on the thing, no matter the brilliance of said sleuth, was perhaps not the best of ideas. Anything might go wrong. "What makes you think I've got any new case that might interest you?" he asked, more for the sake of form rather than from any real effort to put Holmes off.

"Oh, _please_ ," jerking back upright and folding his arms tight across his chest, Sherlock's face was the picture of frustrated impatience. "There's an octogenarian lollipop lady down the road who can undoubtedly lie better than you can, so don't insult either of us by attempting such a pathetic exercise."

"This one is nasty, Sherlock," Greg shook his head, finishing the espresso and debating whether another double-shot might be pushing his blood-pressure too far. He stared down at the empty cup and pursed his mouth. "It's nasty and twisted and I'm really not sure a civilian should be let within half-a-mile of it."

"Really, Inspector," the young Holmes smiled faintly. "I'm hardly a civilian, and if you flirted this hard with your wife, she wouldn't be on the verge of another affair."

Tightening his mouth, Greg said nothing. On top of everything else, one of the last things he wanted to think about was Kathy. Things were already so precarious between them, they could barely speak to one another. "That's off-limits, Holmes," he growled. "And if you want to be in on any of my cases in the future, then you'll need to remember that most people, and I'm including myself in that group, do not take kindly to a smart-alec who seems to open his mouth only to change feet," he finished his coffee and sat back folding his arms, a particularly ominous look on his face.

"That's not me, is it?" Sherlock seemed surprised. "Are you talking about me?"

"Well, who _else_ do you think I'm talking about?" Lestrade rolled his eyes. "For every brilliant thing you say, there's at least two others that seem specifically designed to piss everybody off in no uncertain way," he sighed heavily. "And this new case is a real bad'n, Sherlock," Greg's voice dropped as a deep frown furrowed his forehead. He rubbed a hand roughly over his face and scratched his head. "Looks like we've got another serial killer on the loose, or it might even be two of them working in tandem," his mouth curved down in repulsion as his memory recalled the initial photographs.

Sherlock almost held his breath. This was a better Christmas than the one everyone else celebrated two weeks earlier. He had to be involved in this, he simply _had_ to be. Swallowing, he took a slow inhale and forced himself to relax, though the hand in his pocket was clenched tight to the point of vibration. "Tell me," he said, softly. "You know I can help."

Greg squeezed his eyes closed and exhaled. "Yeah. Christ knows, but I think you probably could really help on this one," he said. "It's just twisted enough to tickle all your funny bones at once."

"Then _tell_ me," the words were almost a sigh.

Sitting back and meeting the younger man's eyes, the policeman took a short breath and pursed his lips. "There's always two deaths close together," he said. "Usually within an hour or so of each other. One is neat and clean, _surgical_ , with what seems to be relatively little struggle taking place; there's almost no external damage to the victim. The scene is left pretty much untouched and the first instance, it was thought it might have been someone who'd topped themselves and not a murder at all," he paused, his mouth flattening in distaste.

"And then there's the second death that seems to occur no more than a couple of hours later, at most," he paused, pulling another cigarette from his packet, offering the box to Sherlock who waved it aside. His mind needed no nicotine when his thinking was this engaged.

"The second murder is about as far in the opposite direction from the first that it's possible to get," Lestrade dragged smoke heavily into his lungs before exhaling hard. "It's grisly; the victim is barely recognisable and the entire crime scene is a complete butcher's shop," he added. The smoke turned his stomach and he ground the cigarette into the ashtray with hard stabs.

"Then what connects the two incidents other than their timing?" Sherlock knew that coincidence alone could not be what linked these crimes together; there had to be more than planning to make them a partnership.

"There's no blood left in any of the victims," Greg shook his head, his eyes widening in near-disbelief. "Both of them, completely drained dry. The first death where there's no sign of any violence whatsoever, as well as the second one who gets sliced and diced," he shook his head again.

"No blood?" it was Sherlock's turn to frown. "None at all?"

"Not enough to properly measure, no," Lestrade sat back in his chair, wrapping his thick coat tighter around him. "Each one as dry as the Sahara, and none of it at the crime scene itself," he said, "and that's not even the most interesting thing."

"There's more?" Sherlock felt his eyebrows rising. This case sounded wonderfully anomalous as it stood.

Greg nodded. "It's _how_ they were drained," he said, leaning closer, his voice hushing. "The only thing the pathologists can tell us clearly is the fact that both victims have large bite-marks on their throats," his mouth twisted. "Looks like we've got another vampire on our hands."

Sherlock felt the cold air around him grow still and grey, as if the entire world had ceased its revolution for just a few moments. _Vampire?_ It was almost impossible for the killer to be a vampire. For one thing, everyone _knew_ that vampires were things of myth; they didn't exist beyond the pages of gothic fiction. And for another thing, the only vampire he knew was Mycroft, but even the _idea_ that Mycroft might have ... might be ... What did Lestrade know that he wasn't saying? "Really?" he heard himself speaking. "A vampire?"

"Well, not _really_ a vampire," Greg shrugged and twisted his face. "We just call them that because of the ... you know," he said, pointing two fingers at the side of his neck. "Every so often we get a body turn up where clearly someone has been reading a few too many horror stories, or there's been a rerun of some naff bloodsucker film at the local _palais_ ," he said. "Typically, there's a murder where some whack-job takes it into his head that he's the undead incarnate, and has tried, quite literally, to bite someone's head off," Lestrade rubbed his face with both hands. "Usually, when we find the killer, it's either someone psyched-out on the latest boutique drug doing the rounds, or it's someone with serious delusions who's just come _off_ their meds," he sighed heavily. "But this series of murders is taking everything to a new extreme and I tell you true, it's giving me the willies."

"How many deaths thus far?" Sherlock linked his fingers together over his chest. "When and where?"

"Four so far that we know about," Greg looked and sounded depressed. "Though there may be others that haven't been found yet ... god, I hope not," he winced. "The first two were discovered a few days before Christmas in an abandoned factory in Hammersmith, and the second pair, the day before yesterday, in a condemned church hall, not far from the Edgeware Road in Paddington. If our man, or men ... and I'm assuming he, or they, are men simply because the victims were all pretty big men themselves and not of a size to be easily overpowered by a woman or women," he paused. "Whoever is responsible seems to be exhibiting two wildly different styles of attack, which is what's making me thinks there's actually two of them working in tandem."

"Or a single killer, possibly with some form of multiple personality disorder? Bipolar?" Sherlock looked thoughtful.

Greg took the idea and mulled it over before shaking his head. " _Nah_ ," he said. "I've never met anyone with BPAD who's gone to those kind of extremes; this is real Jekyll and Hyde stuff, Sherlock, and it's as wicked as it gets."

"Then I need to see the bodies and the crime scenes and the forensic reports before I can tell you unequivocally," Sherlock nodded, suddenly all business. "Though if Anderson has been handling the forensics, I dare say there'll be enough grossly mis-matched evidence to convict half of London."

Lestrade paused. "There's not been any real forensic work done on any of the bodies as yet," he admitted, quietly. "Just basic photographs and the bodies bundled away into the mortuary before any of it got out. The crime scenes have been cordoned-off and have been under twenty-four hour watch ever since. The top brass wanted to be sure everything was locked down tight before the bodies were taken anywhere, in case the papers got wind of the whole thing and we had another Ripper scare on our hands. My Super only came back to me first thing this morning to see if I felt the team were ready to take it all on," Greg chewed his upper lip. "Not quite sure any of us are, to be honest, not from what I've seen so far."

"But this is perfect!" Sherlock almost clapped his hands, before realising the inspector was not in quite the same jovial mood. "... That we have these perfectly untouched crime scenes and bodies; the best chance we have of identifying not only how the victims were killed, but by whom," he added, in a more sedate tone. "Addresses?"

"Now just hold your horses," Greg sat back and thought about another cigarette but refrained. "I've not agreed yet that you can join the team; this one's going to be fraught enough as it is without having a clever-dick bouncing about in the wings."

"Yet," Sherlock brought his linked fingers up and under his chin. " _Yet_ , you said," he smiled briefly. "You know you're going to let me in, so stop playing hard-to-get and give me the addresses."

"No way am I letting you go into either of those places first or alone," Greg shook his head emphatically. "I'd be crucified in court if it was ever known I'd allowed an amateur contaminate the crime scene."

"And yet you permit both Donovan _and_ Anderson _and_ the rest of your clod-hopping crew to stamp for hours across all manner of crucial evidence before you'll even allow me to see it?" Sherlock didn't even attempt to disguise his distain. "At least give me equal billing this time."

Greg stood slowly, a brooding expression on his face. "We'll see," he said. "Come with me and try very hard to avoid making any of my people want to add you to the list of corpses," he muttered. "There's enough already."

Knowing an ultimatum when he heard one, Sherlock followed meekly.

###

She'd actually spotted it when she returned to the London Museum the next morning, and probably would never have even noticed it had it not been for the situation with all the others the previous day. The one lone CCTV camera lodged high up on the roof and almost invisible against the flattened, modernist roofline of the white seventies building. Ellis wasn't considered a top-class researcher for nothing and in fact, had often laughingly compared what she did to police work, except that she lacked the badge and rarely needed to worry about fast car chases. After returning to the museum and telling Ron Oliver she needed to check out the potential provenance of a particular set of battle ribbons, she managed to get him out of the way long enough, while she ambled innocently into the currently unattended security room not terribly far from the main loading bay. The CCTV cameras at the back of the museum may have all been inexplicably turned off, but, Ellis had quickly discovered, not the one on the corner of the roof pointing down towards the rear gate. Not only had it been on and running, but it offered a particularly clear and satisfying view of the plain, light-coloured van that paused at the museum's back gates shortly after midnight of the previous evening.

The images were a little grainy and blurry, but still clear enough to see a person get out of the passenger-side door and tap the entry code into the automatic security gate, which then opened as nice as you like. That fact alone was pretty intriguing; it was obvious that the failure of the rear-elevation cameras was not a freakish technical glitch, but all part and parcel of what was clearly a carefully planned operation to deposit the boxes of goodies without causing any alarms to go off. Driving up to the rear entrance, the roof-camera lost sight of the van and its occupants for ... Ellis checked the time-stamp ... twenty-seven minutes exactly, at which point, the van returned into view, heading back out through the gates. While there'd been no sight of what had happened in that missing time, it wasn't hard to guess what they'd been doing. Replacing the DVD holding the recorded feed, she slid the other into her bag. There was an assortment of software on her home computer she could use to do all kinds of fancy manipulation to the blurry feed, and this was quite important. There was a number plate on the van and she wanted to see it.

Returning to the little general-purpose office where she was part-way through the identification of some seventeenth-century estate-management letters donated by the Duke of Buckingham's family, Ellis sat back as her thoughts started chasing themselves around inside her head. Why would anyone want to donate such a significant number of historical items at the museum so anonymously? Nothing as good as this collection would ever have been refused had it been offered in the usual manner, so what was the problem? And why was the stuff dropped off in such an illicit way? And how were these people not only able to control the cameras, which was a scary enough idea in itself, but able to access the security code for the gate? Who _were_ these people? Were they museum personnel, dumping stolen goods? Security staff? _Who were they and where had they got the boxes of artefacts?_

Comparing her investigative work to that of the police was not the only connection Ellis shared with them; the London constabulary often called on her for advice and information regarding historical details of damaged property or stolen goods. And there were a couple of serving officers in the Met who owed her some fairly major favours; all she wanted was the smallest trace of the van's number plate. And when she had it, as she knew she would, then she'd have at least some link to the museum's mysterious benefactor.

Nodding to herself as she returned to the less-than-inspiring writings of the Duke's ancestors, Ellis tapped her chin with the pencil she was holding. Just what kind of a person would have access to centuries of British military history?

###

The pain had been growing steadily over the last several months. Not yet to the point where it impeded her movement, but Kit noticed it more today than she had before. Something sharp and pointed in between her shoulder blades that came and went. Taking a slow, deep breath, she stilled at the sudden jag of discomfort and looked resigned. She heartily disliked seeing the doctor, but felt this was probably one of those times when she should. It was probably nothing but old age and a general decrepitude, but she hadn't been a nurse for all those years without adopting a very pragmatic view of her own health and she knew there couldn't be all that many things to cause this sort of sensation, and none of the alternatives were terribly good left to themselves.

Picking up the new mobile phone that had been one of the presents Mycroft had given her only a couple of weeks before, Kitta tapped in the number of the local surgery and waited for the receptionist. She'd best get it out of the way, as well as any tests she'd probable be sent to have; that last thing she wanted was for either of the Holmeses to worry.

###

Mycroft found himself staring moodily at the far wall of his office. Not at anything particular on the wall, just the wall itself. He felt strangely unsettled, as if there were something he needed to do that was unpleasant and therefore to be forgotten about for as long as possible. Checking his Hunter, he realised he'd been sitting staring at nothing for more than twenty minutes.

Frowning at his own thoughts, he reflected over the events of the past few days and weeks to see if there were any message there for him, a hint perhaps, of what it was that was bothering him so. He felt quite out of sorts; certainly not himself. Not with his usual clear and calm conviction of things, but the oddest sensation of ... something missing ... as if he were supposed to have something that was vexing by its absence. He'd had flashes of this sensation before, but never as persistent or deep-seated as it was at present. He exhaled irritably; both the sensation itself and the amount of time that seemed to be vanishing in his _contemplation_ of said sensation was something well beyond his normal range of behaviour. If anyone had asked him to define the problem, he'd have to say that either he'd lost something but forgotten what it was, or that he was meant to do something though he had no clue what the task might be. Either way, the edge of dissatisfaction made him shift uncomfortably in his chair as he forced his focus back on the files on his desk.

Unfortunately, there appeared to be no major political or national security catastrophe to claim his thoughts or demand his time, although the ongoing global financial crisis that had begun two years earlier with the collapse of the Lehman Brothers bank was still wreaking havoc with the developed world's institutions as more and more fiscal dominoes toppled to the ground. He hoped 2010 would be a better year for all concerned, but these first few days of the new year had been dominated by this vague presentment of anxiety. It _niggled_.

Sighing at his own fancies, he checked the time again, only to see that a further thirty minutes had come and gone. _Really_. This would have to stop. There were important things to do, one of which had been staring up at him from his desk for the last ninety minutes.

His latest personal assistant, Roman Childes, he of a military penchant and a Bloomsbury background, was proving, sadly, not to be living up to the claims in his résumé. Not that there was anything wrong with a little optimism and imagination, but in this role, to invoke those particular attributes over cynical and analytical observation was to invite abject failure and grinding despair. Mycroft shook his head fractionally as his decision was made. Mr Childes would be relocated to a post more in keeping with his personal flair and gregariousness. No doubt there'd be something suitably arty for him somewhere. And in the meantime, the selection of his replacement was a key issue that could no longer be postponed.

Opening the top dossier, he spread out the three smaller folders enclosed within, each one with a large black-and-white photograph clipped to the front cover. Three profiles, three shortlisted applicants. The first one was of a young, dark-haired woman with dark eyes. In her mid-twenties, her gaze was unafraid and marginally challenging.

He opened her profile and began to read.


	3. in which women deal with secrets.

 

As a cold grey rain thumped down outside, Ellis B. Wilde was sat in a small office at the London Museum, wondering what the bloody hell was a Government Ministry rental-van doing breaking into a national museum in the middle of the night, only to dump a pile of boxes containing a large assortment of ancient British military uniforms and ancillary artefacts? Ellis replaced the old desk-phone back onto its receiver, chewed her pencil and stared at the wall with narrowed eyes. Getting the image of the licence plate nice and clear had been a breeze; she had more tricks and techniques up her sleeve when it came to cleaning up old images than anyone else she knew, and once she had the van's number, and, after calling in the necessary favour from one of her police friends, it had only been a question of contacting the identified rental agency and asking the right people the right questions. Spinning the tale that the van had dropped off some stuff from a different museum collection and there might have been an item left in the van, it was literally child's play to have everyone bending over backwards to assist. There was something noble associated with history that any Brit automatically felt compelled to respect it and Ellis hadn't the slightest compunction in exploiting the fact to her benefit.

Thus, the getting of the licence number and the trace of said number to a London van-rental firm had been a fairly simple task. It was a plain white Ford rental van, hired by the day; anyone could have done it. When she spoke to the young-sounding woman at the van-rental end of the phone, worriedly, and with the faintest note of dire anxiety in her voice, Ellis had continued the same story, though this time intimating her job might be on the line because of it. She never actually said anything _specifically_ , but hinted at implied, though unspoken consequences. Apparently, though, the van was already out on another job, having been cleaned out thoroughly in the interim. There was no way anything could have been left in the van from a previous delivery, and even if this could have happened, all found items were immediately delivered to the main office where they were kept safe until collected.

Ellis found herself hastily revising the story. "Oh, _please_ tell me where the artefacts were picked up," she allowed her voice to grow a little more helpless. "If the van doesn't have anything in it, then any missing item _has_ to be somewhere at the place where the delivery was loaded," she added. "I don't need to know any details other than the actual government office where the boxes were loaded so I can contact them and have them double-check nothing was left behind," she begged plaintively. "You have no idea how important it is for me to put this problem to rest."

"It wasn't actually a government ministry that booked the van out," there was the sound of papers being lifted and turned over at the other end of the phone as the woman seemed more than willing to help as far as she was able. "It was booked out to a private account but at a government address," she went on. "So the place where the cargo was loaded was probably the Ministry site, though the whole rental was paid for from a non-government account, and that's all I can tell you, I'm afraid."

"Can you give me the name of the private account?" Ellis realised she must have a hopeful expression on her face which, of course, the woman at the other end of the conversation couldn't possibly see. "Can you give me anything else at all? This is really very important or I wouldn't be bothering you about it."

" _Sorry_ ," Ellis sensed she'd probably got all the information she was likely to get from this source. "Customer privacy," the woman said. "I'm just not able to give out such details for obvious reasons ..." there was a slight pause. "I can tell you that the contact address is in Whitehall, if that's any help, though I can't give you any more than that, sorry."

Thanking the woman for the information she _had_ been able to provide, Ellis slumped back into her seat, arms folded tightly across her chest and a distinctly frustrated cast to her features. So she couldn't get any more information about _that_ end of the situation; Whitehall was an enormous place, with government departments and offices and ministries dotted all over the place. It was a needle in a haystack of needles. Folding her arms tighter, Ellis chewed her bottom lip and realised the only other option was a thorough investigation of the items themselves in the hope they'd yield at least some information that might lead to the donor.

It had eventually been a morning of some discovery, but not before a certain amount of quiet fuming and distracted hair-pulling had taken place. It was still raining and icy-cold outside though by now, Ellis had located herself in the London Museum's first-floor ladies toilet hanging half-out of a very small window, smoking a very surreptitious cigarette. An indicator of extreme frustration. The investigation was going nowhere at all and while she might indulge in three or four cigarettes a year. This was her second in as many hours. Nor was she actually enjoying it very much, truth be told, her short angry puffs far more irritation than relaxation. Stubbing out the half-smoked Rothman's and flushing the remains down the nearest toilet, she washed her hands to rid the skin of any residual smell, finally looking at her own reflection in one of the large, square mirrors.

She was too pale, she realised, as she dragged fingers through thick hair which, she noticed, needed a proper cut soon. Heavy waves coiled just at her shoulders, a scarcely-controlled mass of golden-copper sweeping down over two refined eyebrows of the same shade. Make-up wouldn't be much help either; she wrinkled her nose at her reflection. Her skin was so light and fine she could see the blue of veins at her throat that even the lightest of cosmetics could not cover without standing out like a beacon. The best she could get away with was a dusting of translucent powder, the merest touch of pink blush at her cheekbones and a translucent mid-rose on her lips. Her eyes were the colour of well-faded denim framed by artificially darkened lashes. She spent far too many days and weeks huddled inside big dark buildings, dissecting old things, breathing old air, thinking old thoughts. She needed a holiday, Ellis realised, noticing a smudge of dirt at her jaw, rubbing at it with her clean fingers. But that wouldn't be for a while; she had far too many obligations to deal with first. Perhaps when the weather became a little warmer she could find somewhere to browse through old castles; maybe find a nice old pub on one of the moors and spend a few days out walking. _Maybe_.

Disciplining her thoughts back into the present, Ellis walked back to the great conundrum which had begun to get intensely irritating. While she'd been able to get a closer though not a terribly productive encounter with several items from the anonymous bequest of military costumes, she'd still found nothing to help establish their provenance, or even a lead she might chase further.

Following the unhelpful van-rental lead, the day had improved a little, with Ron Oliver agreeing she could conduct an initial review of one of the boxes of uniforms, just so there was an external expert's opinion that could be added to whatever the museum would eventually settle on as being the true and accurate story of these venerable pieces of military history. Selecting a box that appeared to be mostly outer coats and uniform jackets since such items generally originated with better identifying labels, Ellis took over one of the museum's two clean-rooms where a huge under-lit central table dominated the otherwise mostly empty space. Everything was white in here; the floor, table, chairs, walls and ceiling. Even the lights, though carefully configured to emit a softer brilliance than in the rest of the offices, provided a clear, pearlised brightness. This was to ensure that nothing brought into the room could ever be accidently left behind. The smallest thread remnant stood out hugely against the clinical white glow of the space and even more so when laid out on the crisp glassy brightness of the table.

Donning a pair of white cotton gloves, and with her notebook, camera, bag of tools and microscope over on a side bench, Ellis felt she was good to go. Lifting up the cardboard flaps to look inside the box, the first thing she noticed was the smell. Not unpleasant, but dusty, with an old and vaguely herbal scent. Thyme? _Rosemary?_ Something reminiscent of timeworn cedar wardrobes and the fragrance of dried petals laid in drawers of keepsakes. There was also ... and her eyebrows rose a little at this ... the faintest burnt tang of gunpowder. Sniffing around the cuffs of the greatcoat which she'd laid out flat on the table, it was plain to see that not only had this item been well worn, but it had likely seen battlefield action. _How_ _fabulous_. Which campaign might it have been?

Laying out the remaining several pieces of clothing side-by-side across the long table, several things became immediately clear. All these articles had been made either for the same man or for a group of men who shared a very similar body-shape. Judging by the width of shoulder, narrowness of waist and length of drape, Ellis estimated these items were all made for a man somewhere a little over six feet tall, with a reasonably slim overall shape. All the items would have cost a great deal of money at the time and … most interestingly, each of the garments were from _different_ times. The chest measurement of the coat was between forty-two and forty-four inches, and the arms were also fairly long, suggesting a body with a natural overall length, rather than a man with a more stocky torso and long legs. So; a tall, slim man, or men, commissioning bespoke clothing over a period of … Ellis looked across all the items with a practised eye. The oldest jacket, giving at the seams and with the fabric already showing indications of organic deterioration and moth infestation looked to be from the early eighteenth century, 1710 or 1720 perhaps, yet the greatcoat was later, at least mid-Victorian. Clearly, whoever commissioned these garments had significant wealth behind them; the quality of even the hidden internal stitching was exquisite.

A wealthy family perhaps? A large family of many sons? That wouldn't be uncommon, though usually only the eldest son of wealthy families entered the army. But if so, then why were most of these uniforms of different times? Different military campaigns? Why not have several iterations of the same item for the whole family? It dawned on Ellis that this wasn't merely a collection of antique clothing; it was turning into a _generational_ collection of clothing. So then; a family of great wealth, a wealth that had been around for several hundreds of years with the family closely connected to the British army for a very long time. There _had_ to be a name in here somewhere; this kind of long-term familial connection to the army simply _had_ to be recorded. Running a list of major landed families through her head, she tried to work out if any one of them had a continuous line of elder sons participating in a near-constant military service. There were the Andrews, the Elliots, the Caprons ... she'd need to go through Burke's Landed Gentry and probably the _Almanach de Gotha_ to find out all the possible potential families, though that wouldn't help her much right now.

Perhaps if she looked at it from the other direction? Running the litany of British military campaigns through her mind, Ellis realised that on this table alone, there were items covering a timeframe that stretched from the Anglo-Spanish Wars of the early 1700s, right up to the Crimean which ended in 1856; she shook her head, perplexed. It was beginning to seem as if she was looking at a collection from another British military museum collection, but nobody on any grapevine had mentioned any collection, new _or_ old suddenly being available, not had there been anything in the papers about any National Trust property being robbed. This was so deeply strange she wasn't sure what to think any more. It was a proper mystery.

In order to be able to afford all these hand-made garments, there had to be some serious money, wherever it came from, as all the garments had obviously been designed and made by the very best craftspeople. Were there any maker's marks? Ellis opened the more recent greatcoat and looked at the inside seams and inner pockets, running her fingers carefully up and along each seam, each pocket. There was nothing obvious to be seen; no tags, no ownership marks, no labels of commission, though the fingertips of her gloves brushed across a number of cut black threads inside the coat's collar where there had clearly _been_ a label, though it had recently been removed. _How entirely curious_ ; not only was the unknown benefactor determined to remain completely anonymous, but they had gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure no name could possibly be connected to any of these items.

Rubbing the small square area of the wool fabric inside the coat's collar, she could see there was a slightly rougher, unworn patch where the label had sat for over one-hundred-and-fifty years. She checked the pockets, but there was nothing in any of them save dust and a few heads of dried lavender, which went some way to explaining the scent she'd noticed at the beginning. A natural moth-deterrent, people used to lay great sheaves of dried lavender among their linens and clothing presses for exactly that purpose. Perhaps she'd have better luck with one of the more uniformed jackets, though at a quick glance at the bare patched and snipped threads, it seemed they had suffered a similar fate to the coat and all were _sans_ _nom_.

The garment next to the greatcoat was a fine Mess Dress jacket, circa 1800 and exquisitely tailored and sewn, the ornamental gold thread of the chest frogging still cohesive and glittering. This looked to be a little earlier than the greatcoat and sang to her instincts as something that might have seen the Continent, rather than dwelling solely on British soil. It had all the hallmarks of the British officer abroad; the finest quality wool, the red dye still rich and vibrant, and looked as though it had never seen the daylight, the colour was so intense. The seams, originally sewn with pure silk, were giving badly and the entire garment looked in imminent danger of complete structural breakdown, and yet it was such a beautiful jacket. Such a gorgeous piece of crafted skill; it would take some doing, but the seams could all be re-sewn, bring the garment back to its former glory. The raised curve of the two central chest panels dropped in a smooth arc as the tailcoat swooped down over the hips, fitting snugly around and lower down at the back. Three gilt buttons at the front. It simply shouted Napoleonic era.

The immaculate and delicate stitching, the excess of gold braid, the additional glamour, all pointing to the livery of a senior officer. Not a General, not quite grand enough, nor yet a Brigadier-general, but not much lower. Lieutenant-Colonel looked about right; something with authority but not at the highest level. Ellis traced the heavy gold braids around the bright red cuff and abbreviated straight collar. This would have been worn over a waistcoat and a fine white linen shirt, cut away to show a cummerbund beneath, perhaps. This was long before the modern tie was invented so a black silk cravat would have been carefully knotted at the wearer's throat, the ends tucked inside the cream or off-white waistcoat. Closing her eyes, Ellis tried to imagine the owner of the jacket. A tall man with a determined military stance; tall and with a deceptively lean physique. He might be blond or brunet or have wavy hair the colour of midnight, but he would have been handsome, she fancied. Tall, dark and handsome.

Shaking her head and smiling at her mild fantasy, Ellis folded her arms and looked broody as she stared back at the five garments spread out in front of her. There was a big secret here that none of them were willing to share, and it annoyed her. Each of these items was very old and had obviously been kept somewhere safe between the time they were last worn and the night they were dumped outside the museum's back door. They were costly and precious pieces of clothing; not something anyone who had looked after them for a few hundred years would easily discard, let alone treat as rubbish to be simply thrown away. That they all seemed made to fit a very particular body-shape was confusing; either they were made for a single man, which of course, was impossible, or they were made for several generations of men with similar physiques; generations of the same wealthy family looked like being the most reasonable option. But if so, them why would any family, especially a wealthy family, choose to discard what must be a great portion of intimate family history? Why keep all these wonderful things for so long, only to dump them the way these things had been dumped? It made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

It was at this point of rising exasperation that Ellis had stomped off to the first-floor ladies and a clandestine and deeply illicit smoke. But neither of the two hastily-puffed ciggies did the slightest bit of good. Narrowing her eyes and scowling in frustration, Ellis abandoned her mirror-gazing and left the toilets to go in search of Ron. One box of the strange collection was simply not going to be sufficient for her to form any reliable opinion of anything, and she promised herself to keep looking until she had at least some answers to all the questions circling around in her brain. It was only after the Senior Curator had smiled, given her _carte blanche_ and told her to go ahead and do whatever she felt best, that Ellis remembered the box of hats. It was one of the larger boxes, but hardly heavy and she had it loaded up onto an industrial dolly and wheeled along to the white room in a jiffy.

Moving the coat and the jackets carefully down to one end of the long table, Ellis opened the flaps of the large box and with extraordinarily gentle fingers, brought out each of the fourteen items of military headgear contained within. The black felt cocked hat with the faded red rosette was laid on the top, but nobody had had the time to look inside any further. Instantly identifiable as she brought them carefully out into the light, there were several army shakos of differing venerability; two dusty old bicorns that had definitely seen better days; another cockaded tricorn; two hand-blocked plain black felt bicorns and, most strange of all, a solitary Polish tzapka. All had been worn. All were showing advanced signs of general organic deterioration, where the leather-lined felted wool had simply begun to disintegrate back into dust; there was a limit how long these things could survive outside of an Argon gas-filled display case.

Examining each piece of headgear in the greatest detail, from the oldest to the most recent, Ellis sought any kind of hint as to where each one was made. As with the coat and jackets, each of these had been expensive purchases in their time; of the highest quality and craftsmanship. Amazingly, and again, as with the garments, each bespoke hat appeared to have been made for a single-sized head, the inner circumference of each being _precisely_ twenty-two and one-eighth of an inch in every case, though this was not an uncommon measurement for men's heads, it was still a little odd. Even between brothers of the same family, head sizes usually differed a _little_. And there was still no sign of a maker's mark or Cutter's label. Ellis felt her scowl return as a small ripple of bad temper ruffled her usual calm. Picking up what looked to be the most recently made example, one of the plain black bicorns, Ellis peered inside, running her fingertips in and around the leather-banded inner brim but there was nothing. Tempted to give up the exploration, she looked at the fine but relatively solid inner band of lovingly tanned leather and noticed a small section of stitching had begun to come away; not unusual in the least, given the antiquated nature of all of these items. Inserting a finger into the sagging headband, she cautiously tugged the stitching a little further into disrepair, trying to look inside to see if there might be anything beneath it.

There was.

The merest corner of light silk came into view, and there was only one reason a piece of light-coloured silk would be fixed to the inside of any hat. Reaching over for her small bag of tools, Ellis pulled out a tiny pair of rounded-end scissors of the sort children might use without harming themselves. Angling the softened points of the scissors inside the sewn band, she snipped gingerly away at a row of minute black stitches until there was a gap of almost three inches, enough for her to pull the inner band down and look beneath. Lifting a small steel torch to illuminate what she wanted to see, Ellis realised she'd just had her first major break; there was a maker's label sewn into the hat but beneath the headband. She had never seen this done before, but if there was one thing she knew about the work she did in historical research, it was that there was a surprise around every corner. As the full nature of the newly-exposed label became clear, Ellis felt her heart rate increase.

In faint red letters on a small white silk square, stained yellow with dirt and age, the name of _HAWKES Ltd., 17 Piccadilly, London_ , were still clear enough to read. Thomas Hawkes, one hundred years before his company was bought out and joined with that of James Gieve to become one of London's most fashionable and expensive military tailors.

Most importantly of all, of course, was that Gieves and Hawkes still had all their original books of account; every single order and transaction since Hawkes was founded in 1771. Grinning for the first time, Ellis knew the hat could probably be traced to an original order. Lifting up the other black bicorn, she located the same place of the stitched headband and carefully cut three stitches; just sufficient to see if there might be a second label in the same place.

There was. In fact this time, there were two of them

The same red-lettered Hawkes label, and a second, smaller label beside it with a word written in dark, though very faded ink, the writing so faint now, that only the first letter, a capital H was clearly visible. The last letter of the word might also be an S. Was this another Hawkes label? But if so, why put two of them together? That made little sense. Most likely, it was the client's order-name. So now, there was a maker's name, a possible client-name and an approximate date. Thomas Hawkes operated out of 17 Piccadilly between 1793 and 1809, at which point the company became _Hawkes & Co. Ltd_. After Thomas received his first Royal Warrant from George the Third. That there was a potential client-name beginning with H and ending in S made everything all the more exciting. It was a rather unexpected breakthrough that she was determined to explore.

###

He could have interviewed them all, of course, but Mycroft really only wanted to speak to the dark-eyed young woman. As well as having a first-class mind, or so her university transcripts suggested, she was very beautiful, though young beauty was not necessarily a thing he valued for its own sake. Yet others _would_ ; and the number of indiscretions a man might make when faced with a lovely woman were legend. In his role, Mycroft had long since learned that no weapon or tool might be considered too lowly if it got the job done quickly and without violence. Not that he shirked from violence _per se_ , it simply took too much effort and clean-up time to be considered anything other than an alternative of last-resort. No, far better to have things happen ... _naturally_ , to be offered information through a desire to impress, and who better to impress but a very pretty girl with eyes the colour of melted chocolate and a mouth for which angels might fall into sin.

He was more interested in what lay _behind_ the molten gaze and the devilish pout. As well as a clever brain, did the young woman have what it took to handle the role for which she was now being considered?

"Tell me about your family, Ms Worthington," he prompted easily. "I see you were raised by foster-parents. Why so?"

"I never knew my father and my mother died young," the dark-eyed candidate linked her fingers in her lap and met his gaze with an openness that in itself was beguiling. "My foster parents are kind people, but they had their own children to look after and I never really fitted in entirely. I think we were all relieved when I won the scholarship to St Andrews," she shrugged. "I've not done more than pop in occasionally since I graduated from my Masters last year."

"Applied Linguistics," Mycroft didn't need to check the form; he already knew everything of importance about her. "Arabic, Japanese, Spanish and ..." he looked as if he were trying to remember the last one, though she could see he was shamming. He wanted to make her jump in with an answer.

She smiled, widened her eyes fractionally and waited.

"And Hindi," his gaze settled. "Interesting choices."

"Strategic choices," she said. "I'll need them all where I'm going."

"Which would be ..?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow lazily. She was interesting, this one.

"The top," her smile was genuine and unforced. She meant it.

He smiled too. "And when you get there," he murmured. "Is anyone likely to be waiting?" he asked. "A close, personal friend, perhaps?"

Crossing her legs and smiling again, though this time with the slightest glint of sharpness to her expression. "I have had several close, personal friends," she nodded equitably. "Though none I'd expect to wait for me; certainly none who would arrive there before I did," she raised an eyebrow of her own.

Mycroft felt the desire to laugh. For someone so very young, this one had a fire in her veins, he could feel it. Smart, clever, thorough, ambitious and, not that it needed to be said, a physical asset as well. "And how do you feel about danger?" he said. "Personal danger; physical, emotional?"

"I wouldn't go looking for it, though there are few things in this life that don't harbour some kind of danger," she leaned forward, her eyes narrowing a little. "Can you be more specific?"

"Yes," Mycroft pulled open the top drawer of his desk. "This kind of danger, for instance," he said, laying down a nineteen millimetre SIG, its nozzle pointing, quite incidentally, towards her heart.

Her eyebrows rising in concert this time, she sat back in her chair and pursed her lips, eyes fixed on the sizeable black pistol. "It looks heavy," she said, thoughtfully. "If that one's for me, I'd like to see if there's something a little lighter, possibly."

Mycroft allowed the corners of his mouth to curl up a touch. "I keep this one to frighten people who might benefit from being frightened," he said, sliding the weapon back into the drawer. "I'd arrange something far less obtrusive for your use," he nodded thoughtfully. "How do you feel about Wagner?"

"The actor or the composer?" there was more than a hint of laughter in her question. "Either is okay, though I draw the line at the Ring Cycle," she squinted one eye closed. "Too much of a good thing and all that."

"And how do you feel about keeping secrets?" Mycroft watched her carefully now; much depended on her response.

"About the actor or the composer?" she asked again leaning forward, her voice dropping low and quiet, her eyes intelligent, focused and wary.

 _Perfect_. She was perfect. "How soon can you join the team?" Mycroft rested his hands on the desk in front of him. "I need to fill this role quickly."

Leaning back in her seat again, Andrea Worthington nodded in acknowledgement of the situation. "I'm free now," she said. "Though I'd appreciate a cup of tea first, if possible."

Mycroft smiled. _Perfect_.

###

Kitta Penderic sat at the kitchen table in the Pall Mall house … _her_ kitchen table after all these years, and sipped hot tea from a fine porcelain cup. Despite the foulness of the day beyond the walls, the house itself was warm and quiet and comforting. Arrayed before her on the white-scrubbed old wood were a series of small boxes, each one bearing an unusual name. But she had been a nurse for a very long time and knew precisely what each one did; the beta blockers, the calcium channel blockers, the ACE inhibitors. Sighing, she opened a box labelled _Ranolazine_ and laid out a tablet in front of her, to which she added a selection of others. Looking down, Kit frowned. She was going to need more tea.

###

Wading through a seemingly endless river of paperwork, things to be read, things to be signed, things to be read, signed and then counter-signed by someone else; Andrea Worthington kept her glow of satisfaction under tight control. Elated to have won the job she'd worked so hard to get, a small amount of pleasure wouldn't seem amiss, but the level of consummate gratification fizzing through her brain right at this moment had to be utterly contained lest it alert anyone by its sheer unbounded exuberance. She had worked incredibly hard to find this job, to be in the right place, at the right time and with the right kind of qualifications and approach to be considered suitable; the planning alone had taken her years.

She signed the Official Secrets Act and smiled as she added the single page onto the 'Done' pile. Now that she'd passed the final test, had been accepted and even welcomed into the fold by her new and, she had to admit, her somewhat intriguing boss, there was only one more thing she needed to do.

Sitting back and accepting a proffered cup of tea with heartfelt thanks, her mind was already gearing up for the next challenge, the ultimate outcome of this entire project. What would be the best way to kill Mycroft Holmes?


	4. in which many things are discovered.

 

The old furniture factory in Hammersmith, just off Overstone Road, had already been marked for demolition; the land far more valuable for another large block of flats than it ever had been for the construction of cheap and cheerful kitchen units, settees and black ash bookshelves for those ready to upgrade from Argos. It wasn't a massive place as some of the old factories went, but big enough; there were ample places to hide a body, or two, as in this particular instance.

By the time Lestrade allowed Sherlock to accompany him to the crime scene, the entire place was swarming with blue-plastic clad forms, each one sealed-off from head-to-foot so as not to contaminate the scene; begloved, shoe-covered, masked and carrying a multitude of small plastic boxes, bags and tweezers. And the place was freezing. There had been too much deterioration in the building to have the electricity turned back on; god knows what might have gone up in smoke if they'd tried. A couple of medium-sized generators had been authorised instead and they sat at the perimeter, inside, their throbbing roar only barely muted inside by distance and a few thin brick walls. They weren't for heaters, though, but for the tall industrial lights, of which there were quite a number; large upright spotlights on steel stands, illuminating even the darkest corners with a harsh brilliance that seared black shadows onto white walls.

Though the bodies were no longer _in situ_ , the crime scene had still barely been touched as Greg's silver-blue BMW drew up sharply in an outside space already passed as clean by the initial forensic team. As soon as both he and Sherlock stepped outside, an officer handed the DI a large manila folder, just as both men were also handed bags of protective gear.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scorned the offering without a second glance, his long stride already taking him towards the largest crowd milling around a central open space. There could only be one reason for there to be an open space in the middle of all these people.

In the actinic lighting, blood looked like black paint splashes. Though there wasn't a great deal of it, there was no doubting it for anything else.

"The first body, the barely touched one, was over there," Greg rustled as he pointed; his disposable plastic coverall wrinkling shapelessly. "It was left sitting on a wooden chair and if it hadn't been for the bite-mark on the throat, it would have been almost impossible to find any cause of death until pathology told us about the missing blood."

"And the second body?" Sherlock stood, hands in the deep pockets of his heavy coat, his eyes entirely focused on the dark splashes. The surrounding walls all bore a coat of relatively recent graffiti, the colours still clear and untarnished by mould or water damage.

"Not really a body as such," Lestrade grimaced. "Bits were scattered all over," the silver-haired policeman waved a vague hand across the space in front of them. "Bloody awful sight."

"You have photographs, of course?" Sherlock's eyes never left the ghastly scene in front of him.

"Here," Greg handed over the heavy manila folder which proved to be full of printed and excessively graphic photographic images. "Knock yourself out."

"May I keep these until tomorrow?" Sherlock held the folder closed under his arm, rendering the question academic as he paced carefully around the perimeter of the marked-off space, the bare concrete floor crunching grittily beneath his shoes. "I need to immerse myself in them," he murmured absently as he stared down at the floor. "Let them tell me all their little stories."

"Yeah, whatever," beneath his white face-mask, Greg's mouth pinched flat. Who'd want to _immerse_ themselves in anything like this stuff was either _seriously_ touched or had the emotional distance of a Nobel physicist. At this stage in their acquaintanceship, he wasn't quite sure which way Sherlock went. Having a little idea of how the younger man's mind worked, it was probably both. "Just make sure they stay out of the public's eye and that I get them back first thing in the morning," he muttered, following around after the tall man in the long black coat, his eyes unable to tear themselves away from the gruesome black lines dragged across the crumbling cement floor.

"And you're quite sure the complete body was the first to be murdered?" Sherlock crouched down, apparently assessing the angles between doorways. "Ah yes," he added softly, nodding. "Of course it was."

"From what the pathologist has been able to give us so far yes," Greg folded his arms and rocked back on his heels a little wondering what it was the tall man had seen to make him so sure. "Though it's damn near impossible to put an accurate time of death on anything when all you have is a large bucket of body parts."

Standing, Sherlock made a slow pirouette, his gaze strafing the few frameless, glassless windows within a useful proximity. Without another word, he strode over to the nearest gaping hole and stepped right through it into the scrubby bushes beyond.

"Watch him, will you?" Lestrade waved a uniform towards the dilapidated window. "Make sure he doesn't accidently stab himself to death by tripping over broken glass, or something; our insurance only runs so high, these days."

But even before the constable was able to reached the collapsing frame of old bricks, Sherlock bounded back in, coat flying and with a great grin all over his face. "The killer may have entered the building in any number of ways," he said, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder. "But he went out that window at least once; I'll need better light to see; it's a bit dark out there in all that undergrowth."

"You sure about that?" Greg was still getting used to Sherlock's proclamations; it was still difficult to take such uncompromising statements without a pinch of salt. "Could have been kids messing about."

"Kids with blood on their hands?" Sherlock took a plastic evidence bag from the nearest forensic officer and dropped a small, leafy twig inside.

Lestrade walked over and turned the bag towards the brightest of the nearby lights; there was a familiar black residue on several of the leaves. "I see your point," he said, rapidly instructing several of the forensic people to tape off the windows from both the inside and the outside.

"The first body was left sitting upright on a wooden seat there," Sherlock pointed to a point on the floor that seemed no different to any other point beneath the lights.

Greg watched as one of his plastic-coated people nodded. "Yes, exactly there, but how can you be so sure?" the DI wanted to know how Sherlock could make such an assessment without looking at any of the photographs and having looked at the space in front of them for less than three minutes all up.

The young Holmes grinned and crouched down again, pointing an index finger first at the four indentations of the chair feet and then at something immediately beyond the marks. "See the faint footprints in the dust?" he asked. "Two distinct shoeprints, men's size ten, almost side-by-side; their depth in the concrete-dust indicates they held that precise placement for several hours and very likely overnight, or until at least one dew point had been and gone. The dampness in the air has set the imprint in the cement dust, you see," Sherlock nodded, as if everyone would have grasped the import of such a barely-visible detail. "The first body was here at least twenty-four hours before the second victim was killed elsewhere and their remains brought her to be ... _scattered_ , which means the killer is either exceptionally well-organised, has at least one accomplice or is incredibly lucky."

"Lucky? How so?" Despite his reluctance to believe everything Sherlock said, it was becoming harder to avoid utter fascination. "And how do you know the second victim was killed elsewhere?"

"This place is a haven for local graffiti artists," Sherlock stood, stretching himself tall and indicating the walls around them. "I wonder how long our killer knew he had a clear window for his activities before one of the local spray-paint gang interrupted him?" he shook his head slowly. "Despite the viciousness of both killings, this scene is not at all what it appears," he added, slowly, continuing a measured walk around the perimeter of the taped-off area. "And even if the second victim was somehow entirely drained of flowing blood _in situ_ , there would still be a sufficient quantity remaining within his muscles and organs to redecorate this scene quite adequately," he stopped, frowning.

There were a different set of marks in the dust, several of them, relatively close together ... tiny round indentations about the size of a press-stud. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock looked even closer, able now to see a rough line of the faint round marks leading away and towards the rear of the building. Extracting a small torch from an inner pocket of his coat, he followed the near-invisible trail, with an increasingly curious detective following cautiously behind.

"What have you found, Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice was soft so as not to overly distract the bloodhound on the new trail. "Something nobody else has seen yet?"

The trail of small indentations, each now almost two yards apart, led away from the place of death and out towards a half-open rear exit, the tall door, half off its hinges. Sliding carefully through and out into the open space beyond, both men found themselves in a small area that had clearly been used as a car park. There was still the faint imprint of muddy tyre-prints.

"The killer also came in and out through here," Sherlock looked perplexed as he pointed to the rain-washed car tracks. "I'm not sure your people will be able to get a decent imprint of those," he said, looking down at the tyre impressions. "But it would be worth a try," Sherlock blinked slowly. "The tracks are very likely from the killer's vehicle, whatever it might have been," he added, returning to stare at the vague muddiness. "Hard to see without the proper lighting."

"I'll get my lot onto it right away," Greg inhaled sharply, shouting back in through the open door until the sound of running feet momentarily obscured the sound of the generators.

Sherlock was glad that the detective inspector hadn't thought to tell his people not to scuff up the trail of indentations he'd followed out here: Sherlock wanted nobody to find those until he himself had worked out what such marks might mean. Marks that were tiny circles really, tiny circles spaced out at roughly the same width as the long stride of a tall man. Marks that could only be made by the steel ferrule of a high-end umbrella used as a walking cane; used by a tall man who carried an umbrella with him throughout and who had stood for some time inside the building watching at least one man die of brutal exsanguination.

Sherlock would be the first to admit that he lacked any real personal understanding of the emotional _frisson_ which sometimes accompanied an intellectual epiphany, but in this instance ... The Inspector had said that a vampire was on the loose; whimsy, of course ... but what if it wasn't actually a joke? What if the murders really had been committed by a ... vampire? What if _Mycroft_ ... _No_. Sherlock shook his head in irritation. No matter how irksome Mycroft might have become recently with his incessant desire to meddle and his 'views' on any indulgence in recreational Class A drugs, it was almost impossible to imagine the man who'd raised an unwanted orphan to be a brutal slayer of innocents.

Sherlock paused when he realised he'd used the word 'almost' inside his own thoughts. Could he really imagine Mycroft as such a violent and bloody killer? There was only one real way to find out for sure. But first, there was the second crime-scene; perhaps he'd find an explanation there for this strangest turn of events.

###

Mycroft had begun introducing his newest assistant, the dark-haired and rather lovely Andrea Worthington, to the basic outline of his department portfolio. There was an enormous amount to take in, but everyone had to begin somewhere.

"There are three basic characteristics to all incoming material destined for my attention," he said, "whether delivered in person, via hard-copy or electronic submission," he added, putting a display of his current inbox waiting-list up on the nearest screen in his office. "And the first critical step of your role will be to undertake a very practical level of triage," he added, waving a casual hand at the lines of documents, emails and sent information now marching across the electronic display until they populated the entire screen. "Approximately sixty percent of all requests that come to me are calls for information, for meetings, for documentation, for government briefings," he said. "Your primary task at this level is to intercept everything before it reaches my desk and break the bulk of it down into tasks that may be done by you or assigned _by_ you to another; of documents or orders that require my signature, or of tasks that necessitate my actual bodily presence," he added. "Less than ten percent of all items that cross my horizon are things I really need to see, while more than ninety percent of traffic headed in my direction are things which _other_ _people_ consider it vital that I see," Mycroft paused. "Are you comfortable with the differentiation?"

Andrea nodded simply. Of course it was clear; the only thing remaining uncertain was where the lines might be drawn. "How have you defined the boundaries for each characteristic?" she asked. "Or am I expected to define such things myself and be corrected by you as and when I am in error?"

Mycroft smiled internally. _Exactly the right question_. "Which would you prefer?" he asked smoothly.

Pondering the alternatives, Andrea pursed her lips. "How about you provide a quick overview to start with and then I'll tackle the current crop. You can tell me what I've missed afterwards and perhaps provide a few pointers on the ones that are borderline?"

"Excellent," Mycroft nodded, handing her a paper list of names and associated responsibilities. "Anything major that focuses on any specific issue, onward to these people within the department requesting a response in the shortest possible timeframe, though I'll leave you to argue that with them," he raised an amused eyebrow. "Anything that comprises a number of variables, by all means seek input from the others, but attempt to address them yourself," he added. "Only those items that cannot be forwarded to anyone else in the department or that you are unable to even begin addressing yourself should come to me. As you learn the ropes, I'll expect you to take a greater share of the administrative responsibilities, leaving me free to deal with the more ... esoteric aspects of the department's workload."

Turning, Andrea was about to head back to her smaller, outer office when Mycroft paused her with a raised finger. "One other thing I neglected to mention," he said. "None of my staff use their real names," Mycroft paused. "It's a security measure that has worked exceedingly well for the last fifteen years," Mycroft looked introspective. "You'll need a departmental code name which shall be the only one you use in any aspect of this your work here," he added, his dark blue eyes suddenly hawk-like and piercing. "Do not use your own name or release any private contact information to anyone else in or beyond this office, am I clear on this?"

"As crystal, sir," it was Andrea's turn to nod. "What code name shall I use?"

Thinking, Mycroft's eyes went momentarily vague. "Anthea," he said, slowly. "Your code name will be _Anthea_ ," he paused, inspecting her less than enthusiastic expression. "Does that suit?"

"The name reminds me of a seventies game-show hostess," Andrea sounded indifferent. "I have no affection for such a name, but as it's a coded identifier, it's as good as any other, I suppose."

Mycroft smiled faintly. Regardless of all their pragmatic knowledge, how little these young ones knew. Anthea, otherwise known as _Hera_ , ancient Greek goddess and daughter of Cronos, the personification of time. If only she but knew. But of course, there was no reason for her to think of such things, was there?

Andrea saw the faint smile on his face and kept her own hidden. _Anthea_ and _Hera_ ; of course she knew the etymology of the name and though she might not personally like it, it was perhaps, fitting. As she recalled, Hera had a son called Ares. _Ares; God of War_. Anthea smiled outright at that; how apt, since she fully intended to bring death and destruction into this place of quiet shadows and unspoken secrets. "I'll get cracking," smiling neutrally, Anthea returned to the desk she was going to get to know very well over the next few days.

A new email had just arrived for her specific attention at the top of the list. It was from Mycroft. She narrowed her eyes; was this a test already?

 _On a personal note_ , he wrote. _I have a younger brother, Sherlock_. _Any contact from him is to come to me immediately, wherever I am and whatever I'm doing, even if I'm in a Category One meeting,_ he added. _If the contact is urgent, you are to ensure I am made aware of this regardless of what you are required to do; override a phone conversation_ , _meet me at the Palace, intercept my driver_ , the email continued. _No matter when it arrives or whomever I might be with, my brother must always be given precedence._

Mycroft Holmes had a _brother?_ Anthea frowned, flicking back a single word response, _Yes_ , before queuing up the seemingly endless list of waiting tasks Mycroft had just shunted across to her inbox. This was something new; nothing in any of the records she'd been able to locate on Holmes – and there had been precious few details to begin with – gave any indication of family whatsoever, let alone a younger sibling. But how intriguing ... and potentially how useful. Anthea began working steadily through the first dozen or so letters and incoming emails to see in fact just how many she might be able to deflect to others. It turned out she was able to better Mycroft's sixty percent; in fact she managed to dump nearer seven out of every ten documents onto other plates, with a couple left for her to personally undertake, mostly just needing a quick signature. Within the hour, she had effectively cleared the screen, onwarding a mere handful of documents to her new Director, and those only because they made no sense to her and were probably in code.

Sitting back for a moment, Anthea started making her own list, though this one was definitely not for public consumption, no. It would take a considerable time to compile and she would continue to develop and improve on it until she had every relevant and available detail. It was to be a list of every possible weakness she could discover about Mycroft Holmes; every internal limitation within the department; each external link between him and other senior individuals, even a complete documentation of professional relationships and personal friendships. Were there any grudges she might exploit? Old scandals that might be revived to her advantage? There was an immediate entry that seemed already to have pride of place; she smiled as she inserted the name _Sherlock Holmes_ right at the very top of the list. Even without further investigation, it was clear that the younger brother was a sensitive point with the elder Holmes; there might well be something there she could use to evoke the eventual downfall and destruction of the man who was directly responsible for the callous and deliberate ruination of her family.

###

Her eyes never leaving his, Ellis Wilde placed the capacious white plastic bag down on the table between them, carefully undoing the knotted handles until the outer plastic covering could be peeled away and discarded. A large round hatbox now sat on the table between them, and the fingers of both her hands rested lightly over the curved forward edge. The smile on her face was slightly teasing; she knew precisely the kind of questions that must be going through Samuel Jakobson's mind, but what was life without just a little drama?

"Do you want to see it?" she asked in a suggestive undertone, her eyes half-lidded and provoking. "It's quite special; nobody else has seen it yet."

Eyebrows rising as his mouth curved into a small amused twist, the blond Jakobson, a senior military hatmaker at 1 Savile Row, London; the Gieves & Hawkes flagship, folded his arms and perched on the edge of the table. "You're such a bloody tease," he grinned. "Show me the damned hat, you irritating baggage."

"You have no sense of fun whatsoever," Ellis admonished, mournfully, lifting the lid of the round box and carefully extracting the faded old black bicorn hat that sat in a delicate black tissue-paper nest within. Hoisting it aloft with gentle fingers, she transferred it immediately to a softly padded hat stand. "There you are," she murmured, tilting the old hat a little straighter. "Told you it was special."

Jakobson's eyes widened and he stood abruptly, his stare never leaving the object sitting tidily on the padded stand before him. "Oh, my _god_ ," he whispered. "Black velour bicorn trimmed with black braid on upper edges and with a leather cockade," his eyes flicked up to Ellis. "You know what this is, don't you?"

"I know it's not British, for a start," she nodded. "But it has the red Hawkes label sewn beneath the brim," she added. "Now tell me why anyone would go to all the trouble of having an English milliner make a Napoleonic hat in London, and have English maker's labels sewn under the brim where nobody could see them?" Ellis also folder her arms as she stared down at the millinery in question. "Would you still have the invoice for this, despite its age?"

"We still have _all_ the invoices from the very beginning," Samuel breathed, unable to tear his attention away from the ancient item of headgear. Despite its obvious wear and deterioration, it was a stunning example of period military wear. And if it were actually proven to be made by Hawkes and Co, then he simply had to obtain it for the Savile Row museum display; they already had several uniforms, but these old bicorns were extremely rare, and an English-made French bicorn was almost unheard of. Why would any British milliner make such a thing?

Pulling on a pair of soft cotton gloves, Jakobson lifted the hat and, barely breathing, inverted it so that the interior shape and leather brim came into sight. He could see the small section of stitches Ellis had deliberately cut and, holding the hat delicately in the palm of one hand, with the other, Samuel teased away the old leather from the inside of the matted black velour. Just as the historian had said, there were the red Hawkes labels, their size, shape and style as good as any date stamp.

"Circa 1803, right around the time Britain declared war on France when the Treaty of Amiens failed and just before the French army changed to the wearing of Shakos," the fair-haired milliner clucked his tongue in thought. He peered again at the labels, the Hawkes and the second, blurred one, beginning with a capital 'H'. "This is almost certainly one of ours, though I had no idea we ever constructed uniform apparel for the French," he shook his head, bemused. "It feels very wrong," he was frowning now. "That we might have, even peripherally, had anything to do with the French side of the Napoleonic Wars," he paused, replacing the bicorn back onto the shaped and padded stand. "I need to look at the books of account," he said, picking up the stand, hat and all and walking swiftly from the room. "Come with me."

Heading deeper into the working realm of the business, past the cutting rooms populated by quiet bodies, the familiar swish of fabric and the slicing of long shears, Jakobson led Ellis finally into a small room, little more than a big cupboard, really, barely large enough for a tiny central table and a couple of wooden seats. Entirely surrounding them, on three walls, from ceiling to floor, were shelves and shelves of antiquated heavily-bound ledgers of account, each book's tall leather spine was embossed with deep gold lettering of varying degrees of legibility. Depositing the hat stand on the table, his eyes searching along a particular shelf, Samuel reached up and withdrew two of the large books, each one fat with small inserts of paper, cloth samples and tiny notes pinned to the pages.

"This one is from 1800 to 1802," he said, laying the first one down in the middle of the table. "And this one's 1803 to 1804," he added, placing an almost identical book beside the first. Shall we take one each and see if we can find it?"

"So you think the second label with the _H_ is definitely the customer's name?" Ellis pulled the ledger nearest to her a little closer, feeling the weight of the book as she did. The thing weighed a ton. Opening it carefully to the first page, she realised this was going to take ages. For a start, everything was written in longhand across two facing pages, in long columns of information, beginning with the date and the client's name and address, then a description of the ordered article, the name of the craftsman appointed to be the maker, the approximate date of completion, the cost and the date of payment. That each entry was written in quill and by several different hands, some long and flowing, others crabbed and almost illegible.

"Almost certainly," the blond man nodded, cracking open the heavy book now sat in front of him. "I suggest you forget everything else and concentrate on the item description column," he added. "There aren't going to be many orders for a cockaded French bicorn," he said. "Hopefully, this shouldn't take too long at all."

If it weren't for the fact that she was on a quest to find the museum's mysterious benefactor, Ellis might have given up there and then, but the knowledge that somewhere in these books was the name of the man who might have commissioned the cockaded hat was simply too compelling to leave unproven. Inhaling deeply, she opened the book fully, running her fingertip lightly down the widest of the columns as she scanned details of each carefully-written order.

There were hundreds, possibly even more than a thousand records in this one ledger alone. Taking a short break from the endless squinting at cramped lines of dark ink, Ellis stared around the room. _How many secrets were buried in here_ , she wondered. How many stories of people's lives; of wealth and penury, of joy and anguish were written into these old and musty books? There were hundreds of years of stories in here. This room of books was a museum in its own right and would be a wonderful trove to explore more fully when there was time. Making a mental note to forward it as a proposal to the management of the company at some point in the near future, Ellis returned to her task. The short break must have done some good as she found a possible candidate almost immediately.

" _Black cockaded bicorn with trim of fine lambskin_ ," she read out, reaching over to tap Sam on the arm as she kept reading. "Looks to have been commissioned in September of 1803," she observed, running her finger across the page ... did the customer name begin with an 'H'? It did. "Havers," she muttered, reading carefully. "But it doesn't say the hat was made in the French style."

"And I've got one here as well," Sam lifted the book so Ellis could better see the narrow lines of handwriting. "1802. Matted velour of black, with learthern'd facing and cockade," he read. "Looks like the customer name is Withenthorpe, so no 'H', unfortunately."

"There's a London address with the Havers' order," Ellis wished she'd brought one of her pairs of magnifying glasses; this tiny writing was hard to follow in large amounts. "Though that's not to say, of course, that there'd still be any of the family at that address after all this time. I supposed we'd better keep looking to be absolutely sure there's no others."

Handing her a long strip of thin card to mark the page, Jakobson returned to the remaining pages of the journal in his hands. However, there were no other commission that fitted the bill. Ellis had found one other possible order, the description was right and the name did indeed begin with an 'H'. " _Hannis_ ," she read out. "Sounds Scottish. _Bicorn hat of felted velour with lambskin cockade, trim and facings_ ," she added. "There's another London address, though this one has a strange little mark beside the price," Ellis held the page towards Sam, pointing at the inked scratching. "I've not seen that before, what it is?"

Jakobson's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Well now," he sounded intrigued. "That little symbol is an old hashmark and was always used when the order was to be paid from government funds," he said. "And it might even go some way to explaining the oddness of the order itself," he nodded thoughtfully.

"Someone in the British government was buying a _French_ hat?" Ellis wrinkled her forehead. "Why _on earth_ would anyone working in the government at the time possibly need a French hat; they had just declared war, for goodness sake ... no Brit would be going anywhere near the Continent in a Napoleonic bicorn unless they were ..." she stopped short, her own words echoing in her ears. _Oh my ..._

"Unless they were going to France on the behest of the government of the day and, since war had been declared at the time this hat war ordered, then anyone dressed in French military kit would be doing so for only one possible reason," Sam nodded authoritatively.

"You're suggesting the man Hannis was _a British spy?_ " Ellis felt a tingle of intrigue run down her spine.

"Can't think of any other reason off the top of my head," Jakobson shrugged. "It would certainly answer a few questions if it were true."

Leaning back down to make out the finely scribed letters, Ellis saw that the London address was pretty central. Though it was highly unlikely there was any possible connection to the dumping of the boxes of old military gear outside the London Museum ...

###

Answering the doorbell, Kit wondered if it was another young man offering free pizza delivery, there had been a few new restaurants opening in the vicinity. On opening the door she was not greeted by a smiling young teenager, however, but by a serious-faced woman with eyes the colour of the sky and hair that glowed copper-gold in the last of the winter sun.

" _Hello_ ," the woman smiled as she handed Kitta a small white card. "My name's Ellis Wilde, and I wonder if I might be able to talk to anyone in the Hannis family?"


	5. in which secrets are kept.

 

Apart from the fact that the ceilings were a lot higher in here and the gaping windows were a bit more ornate, the scene might have been a near-duplicate of the factory in Hammersmith. The aging church, too old and decrepit to either restore or convert into flats, and not quite old enough to qualify for heritage listing, was scheduled for demolition in April, three months hence. It had clearly attracted a range of uses since it had been de-consecrated; a doss-house for the homeless; crack-den for the hopeless and a site of gang-warfare for the hostile. It was dark and gloomy and had the rank smell of advanced decay, even though the place had probably had more visitors in the last six months than it had in the last six years. And right in the deepest part of the building, at the far end of the nave where the altar might once have stood, there were two more tall spotlights, their livid blazing glare turning everything into sharp white edges. As with the old factory, the place here was swarming with blue-clad forensic specialists.

Taking another pair of disposable latex gloves but once more refusing a pack of plastic overalls, Sherlock swept ahead of Lestrade. flinging himself forward along the partially-cleared length of the nave itself, his tall form taking long confident strides as if it was his local church that he'd been in a thousand times.

The actually setting of the crime scene was remarkably similar to the one in Hammersmith; an old, crumbling building, which, despite being boarded up, was being used for a variety of nefarious purposes. The relatively empty area at the furthest end where once the chancel held pride of place was now the site of something far less divine. Again, there was the cement-dusted floor where the old tiles had long since been pulled up by the reclamation team. Dark blood-splashes showed up clearly among all the other detritus and, as in the factory, there had obviously been some of the stuff spattered around, though nowhere near enough to indicate that two men had been brutally done to death under this soaring roof.

Crouching as before, uncaring as the hem of his heavy coat brushed in the dust to where, this time, the intact, though no longer present, body had been discovered slumped back against a large block of dressed stone, gouge-marks in the dust clearly indicative of a struggle and where, finally, the man's strength had given out and he was lowered carefully to the ground.

Sherlock stood, frowning. Why on earth would anyone be considerate of a corpse having just committed a vile murder? Was it possible the killer knew the victims? "I need details on each of the dead men," he announced, standing "Who they were, what they did, where they worked, that sort of thing," he nibbled his lower lip. "If there was any common denominator between them; if they frequented the same pub or all bought cologne at the same shop; something or anything that might connect them."

"Yeah, but just a polite reminder that we're not all actual idiots, Sherlock," Greg didn't even attempt to disguise the acidic tone in his voice. "If that notion hadn't _actually_ already occurred to every single one of us the minute we realised there was such a similarity in the murders, it might have been a useful suggestion," the silver-haired man folded his arms and looked pained.

"Yes," Sherlock seemed momentarily flustered, his eyes widening a fraction as if he'd been distracted. "Yes, yes, of course," he nodded briefly, frowning to himself.

 _See?_ Lestrade felt marginally vindicated. He knew the lad had it in him to acknowledge the efficiency of others, despite what the rest of the team might think. And even though Sherlock was undoubtedly a genius, even the very clever ones were sometimes brought down to earth by their own fallibility. Nodding, not displeased at the slight sign of imperfection in one who help perfection is such esteem, Greg turned his gaze away, giving the young Holmes a couple of seconds to compose himself after such a shock.

And thus Lestrade missed seeing Sherlock's expression harden visibly as his eyes began following the same trace of small round imprints he'd just spotted incredibly similar to those he'd seen in the old furniture factory. Not merely similar, but _exact_ replicas of the tiny tracks, leading away towards the far wall of the church. Looking up, he scrutinised the distant wall, indistinct in the darkness away from the lights; there seemed to be nothing there except a few sheet of ancient corrugated tin leaning up against the wall itself. Extracting a utilitarian torch from an inside pocket, he stepped carefully alongside the almost invisible track, wondering why the killer had walked over to this wall in particular. It was only as he approached more closely that he, realised the few rusted, raggedy sheets of tin weren't just there by accident. There was another doorway into and out of the church itself, possibly an entrance into what had once been the sacristy. "Did you know there was a door here?" without turning, Sherlock raised his voice sufficiently to be heard over the rumble of the generator. "Hidden behind all this old sheet metal," he added, pulling the thin rubber gloves up over his long fingers before lifting the first sheet completely out of the way.

Footsteps behind him announced Lestrade's sudden presence. "We'd have certainly found this before we'd gone much further," the older man said, "though I'd have preferred to have known about this sooner rather than later," he added ruefully. "What can you see?" he asked quietly, turning as he did to shout "Lights!" over his shoulder.

"Looks like our killer stepped outside for a cigarette," Sherlock sniffed hard several times. "At least _somebody_ did, and I can't really imagine any witness calmly popping out for a ciggy," he sniffed again. Why anyone would smoke outside the building instead of inside made no sense. The church was a virtual ruin with debris and detritus scattered everywhere; even parts of the roof had gone. "So why step outside to smoke?" _Unless ..._ unless someone waited out here until their victims appeared, the killer able to surprise and corned them, cutting off their line of escape? It was possible. There was also something uncomfortably familiar about the aroma of the smoke, old and faint and barely noticeable though it was. Sherlock realised he knew the scent; _Silk Cut_. Exactly the kind that Mycroft smoked on the rare occasion that he did. His frown deepened.

He needed to speak with Mycroft.

###

Glancing down at the small card in her hand, Kitta squinted before lifting up her reading glasses on their fine gold chain and settling them one her nose. "Research Historian, eh?" the old woman looked back at the wide blue eyes of the woman standing on her top step. "And who were the people you said you were looking for, my dear? Harris?"

" _Hannis_ ," Ellis smiled. "I'm searching for a family who has been associated with the British military for a very long time," he smile grew wider. "Coming here was a bit of a long shot, but then, that's often the nature of my job, really," she shrugged, grinning a little.

"And why would you think to come to this particular address?" Kit looked vaguely puzzled, though a faint alarm bell was beginning to ring in the far reaches of her mind. Odd, really, that an _historian_ would come knocking at the door of someone like Mycroft ...

"I'm tracking down the purchase of an old military hat, ordered in 1803, that was bought by a man who gave the name of Hannis," Ellis heaved a sigh, realising she really was barking up the wrong tree; the elderly lady staring at her clearly had no clue what she was talking about, and the name certainly hadn't been recognised. _Oh well_. It really had been a long shot. "But I've obviously been jumping to an optimistic conclusion," she added. "This was the address on the invoice, but it was more than two-hundred years ago; it would be amazing for the same family to still be in residence."

The alarm-bell in Kit's head started to clang warningly. She smiled back. "I'm sorry, my dear," she shook her head slowly. "I've never heard of any family called Hannis living in this house, and I've been here for almost twenty-five years now," she offered a polite smile before moving to step back inside the house, just as a wave of intense dizziness took her and she gasped, clutching at the doorframe to keep her balance.

"Are you alright?" Ellis immediately jumped up the two steps in order to catch the now-swaying old lady in case her legs gave way which seemed a definite possibility at this point.

"Just a little giddy ..." Kit still clung to the doorframe. "But I think I should probably sit down for a bit," she was muttering almost to herself, one of her hands reaching out toward the younger woman. "If you wouldn't mind giving me a hand ..."

Immediately wrapping her right arm around the older woman's waist and holding Kit's elbow with her left, Ellis virtually lifted her inside, casting around for a place to let the elderly lady sit and catch her breath.

"Kitchen's that way," Kit waved haphazardly down the passage to their right. "I just need a glass of water and my pills."

Half-carrying, half-following, Ellis eventually made it into the large kitchen, where she had Kitta in a chair in an instant. "Where are your pills?" she demanded, her eyes scanning the sparkling clean benchtops and glass-fronted cabinets.

"In the oven," Kit leaned forward to rest her head in her arms on the table. "Nobody goes in there but me, you see."

Not stopping to wonder why a clearly unwell person would bother to hide their medication in the oven, Ellis had the appliance open and an old toiletry zip-case in her hand in seconds. Opening the bag, she saw at least six small white plastic bottle and boxes of different medications. "Which one?" she demanded.

"Nitrostat," Kit's eyes were closed and her face was pale.

Grabbing the small white box and swiftly reading the instructions on the front of the package, she removed one of the round white pills and looked around for a mug rack or a clean glass. _There_. Behind one of the large glass doors. No sooner seen, than the cupboard was opened and a glass filled from the tap.

"Here," she crouched down beside Kit. "Open up, this has to go under the tongue," she commanded, waiting until the old woman dutifully obeyed before giving her the medication. "The water's for in a minute when the pill's dissolved," she added, placing the glass down on the table in front of the clearly unwell old woman.

Seeing no magical revival take place, Ellis wondered about calling an ambulance. "Do you need to go to hospital?" she asked clearly. "Shall I call for a doctor?"

"No ..." Kit still lay with her head resting on her arms. "Just need a minute ..." she whispered, as Ellis lifted the woman's thin wrist and located the pulse. It was a little fast, but seemed strong enough.

"Can I call anyone to come home and be with you?" Ellis rustled around in her bag for her phone, ready to place a call in a second.

With a deep inhale, Kit lifted her head and sat slowly back up into the seat. He face was still very pale and her breathing on the shallow side, but at least it didn't look as if she were in imminent danger of keeling over.

Ellis took a deep breath of her own. "Are you feeling better or are you about to conk out on me?" she tested the woman's pulse again; it was just as strong and possibly a fraction slower. "Let me know so I can get my little panic out of the way first."

Smiling wanly and sipping from the glass of water, Kit blinked slowly. "I'm an old nurse," she said, apropos of nothing. "I'll know when I need an ambulance. I'll be fine in a minute," she added. "It just takes me sudden like, sometimes," she breathed more deeply. "Thank you for helping."

"Wait just a minute and I'll make a cup of tea, shall I?" Ellis was fairly sure the tried-and-true British panacea would not be rejected.

"That'd be lovely, my dear, if it's not too much bother for you."

"No bother in the least," Ellis found and filled the kettle. "I'll just go and close the front door while I remember," she rolled her eyes. "Forgot all about it in the drama of the moment. Hang on!"

Taking a few moments to compose herself, by the time the younger woman returned, Kit was once more calm and unflustered. Watching as Ellis warmed the pot and brewed the tea in a proper, rather old-fashioned way, Kitta found she was smiling. Everyone seemed too busy these days to do even the smallest of things in what she considered a proper manner any more. It was pleasant to watch someone else do things in the old way. But then Kit remembered the small card.

"And what's a Research Historian do, then?" she asked, feeling better with every passing minute as the small white pills finally did their work. "Seems a strange job for a pretty lass like yourself."

Turning from her task, Ellis raised her eyebrows and smiled. "Thanks for the compliment, but these days everyone has to find some job they're good at doing, or at least happy to do," she shrugged. "I've always found history fascinating, even when I was at school, and I've always been good at solving puzzles, so the two kind of went together rather naturally," she smiled some more. "And as for being a pretty lass, well, I've never considered myself more than passing average and I'm hardly a _lass_ anymore," she laughed as she brought two cups of tea over to the kitchen table, looking around the high-ceilinged room. "This is a lovely house you have," she added.

"Oh, t'ain't mine," Kit shook her head as she reached for her tea, the first hot sip warming all the way down inside. "I'm the old housekeeper, my dear," Kit looked fondly around. "Bit too old to be doing much now, but I reckon I've earned a right to be here after all these years."

"And you have absolutely no recollection of hearing the name of _Hannis_ at all, I suppose?" Ellis felt she should check, just to be quite sure. "I really am keen to see if I can track down anyone from the family if I can; it's to do with a recent bequest to the London Museum, you see ..." she let her words tail off as the expression on Kit's face remained unchanged. There was clearly no recognition there whatsoever. _Rats_. "Oh well," Ellis made a face and drank her tea. "All part of the job; back to the drawing-board, I suppose," she said, focusing her eyes on Kit's still-pale face. "And while it really isn't any of my business, I'm not happy about leaving you here alone when you're having dizzy turns and there's nobody else in the house," she wrinkled her nose. "Is there anyone I can call for you, ask them to come over for a while?"

Kitta had made an entire battalion of friends in the years she'd been living in London, but she had no desire for any of them, not a one, to find out she was unwell. The moment any hint of it got out, then Mycroft would hear all about it and then there'd be all manner of fuss and bother. There was no need for anything like that.

"I'm expecting a member of the family back here around six," she announced finally, checking the clock on the wall. "That's barely more than a couple of hours away, and now that I've had my pills, I'm going to be perfectly fine, truly," Kit nodded, as if the action would make her claim all the more authoritative.

But Ellis was having none of it, she looked unhappy. "Then, if you don't mind, I'll just stay here a little longer until I can see that you're not likely to go all giddy again; I'd feel better if you let me stay," she said, a look of sincere concern on her face. "If I left and anything happened, I'd really never be able to forgive myself."

Kit saw that there was no hope for it but to let the young woman stay for at least a while longer, though she would need to be gone before Mycroft got in or there might be all hell to pay. The idea that such a man of history and such a determined historian might ever be in the same room seemed a particularly bad idea. There had to be a way to convince her to leave. Perhaps if it were obvious that she was quite recovered ... "My name's Kit," she said, smiling warmly. "If you like history so much, would you like me to show you some of the downstairs rooms in the house?"

Ellis felt her eyebrows pinch themselves into a frown as she took in the older woman's expression. There was something that didn't seem quite kosher in her sudden change of behaviour; one minute she had been pale and on the point of keeling over and now, she was eager to play tour-guide. Nodding slowly, Ellis watched as Kit stood. If the old dear wasn't exactly lively, at least she looked a bit more spry than she had twenty minutes before. Oh well, far be it from her to tell a complete stranger what to do. "I'd love to," she said. "If you really feel up to it, though I'd be happier still if you went and had a bit of a lie-down."

"I told you I'd be fine," Kit started walking towards the kitchen door with a little more energy than she really felt; she had to get this woman gone before Mycroft came home. The fact that he was ... who _he_ was and that this research person was ... who _she_ was ... there was no way Kit wanted a meeting between the two of them for a whole list of reasons. "The main dining-room is in through here," she said, acting as docent. "The house was built in 1670 and the dining room has some especially fine oak panelling ..."

###

Sitting in his office in the early afternoon, Mycroft again found himself staring at the far wall, utterly lost in a grey place where his thoughts seemed submerged in the ether. This last time, almost an hour had gone by before he shook himself out of his reverie, blinked and checked his Hunter. The sense of absence had been so much stronger this time. _What was it?_ What was causing him to have these ... _blackouts?_ It wasn't that he needed another transfusion; he'd had one less than four months earlier and besides, he hadn't experienced any of the other sensations associated with the need for fresh blood. He could not possibly be ill; technically, he didn't even qualify as a living organism, therefore mortal illnesses had nothing about which to wrap their miserable coils. Nor could it be a form of cell-degradation since as long as he received sufficient fresh blood, every part of his body was effectively immortal and would not decay. Nor was he feeling pain or physical discomfort of any kind. He could find nothing in any of his very private collection of esoterica that made even the smallest reference to any illness or physical deficiency to which the vampire might fall prey. There had been one small and rather blurred footnote in one of the older texts that spoke indecipherably of forgetfulness ' _Hit sy forgitelnes angsumnes ond æfwerdelsa bréostcofa hwonne drút hwy béddagas ays eald ared,_ ' though Mycroft's Old English was a little rusty after a thousand years of using more modern forms. _Bréostcofa_ meant _heartbreak_ as far as he remembered, though why a vampire might experience forgetfulness from a heartbreak, he had no idea. It was a novel notion, but since his heart was entirely his own and without the least prospect of it being broken in the foreseeable future, the note had left him no further forward.

He frowned. This was becoming much more than an irritation, although thus far, it had not visibly impeded his effectiveness. The thought that such a mental absence might happen in the dead of night without him even realising it made his lips tighten. What was he doing during at these times he couldn't remember doing? What if one of these episodes took place during one of his meetings with the Cabinet or in any of the security committees? Or even one of the foreign delegation summits? Dear god ... his entire usefulness was based on the fact that he saw everything and lost nothing, that he, of all of them, was the unique place of ultimate knowledge. He was the British government's clearing-house; if anything was affecting his ability to continue in this role ... he inhaled deeply. It would not do; he simple _had_ to discover the source of these mysterious blackouts. While it was unlikely, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he was actually doing something _else_ while his thoughts were ... away. Nothing had yet been said by anyone, but he'd have to institute safeguards. It would only take one peculiar incident for people to begin looking at him far too closely for his liking. And what if he truly blacked out and was taken to a hospital? The situation was intolerable.

"Anthea," he called on the intercom. "Would you step into my office for a moment, please?"

"Sir?" his new assistant was shaping up most pleasingly. In less than a week, she'd managed to get her head around his entire incoming and outgoing procedures and systems which was an admirable state of affairs. Not only that, but it seemed she'd taken his advice to get to know the rest of the team entirely seriously, managing to speak personally and at length with every other member of his staff, including his drivers. Reports coming back to him were that she had been seeking all manner of information, ranging from his daily habits, his preferences for entertainment and his activities beyond the Whitehall office. Clearly, his latest assistant believed in a meticulous thoroughness which boded well for their professional relationship; if she knew him as comprehensively as she seemed to desire, Anthea would be able to advise him on any weak points. Early though it was, perhaps it was time to bring her in on a few more less-obvious elements of the work.

"This is early English," he said, handing over a piece of paper on which he'd transcribed the two lines of text deciphered from the footnote he'd found the previous night. "Have it translated into contemporary idiom, please," Mycroft paused, thinking of how to phrase the question. "Have you noticed anything odd about me in the last few days?" he asked, his dark blue eyes meeting her calm brown ones. "I realise you have only a partial baseline to go by, but have I seemed ... distant ... at any point since you began here?"

" _Distant_ , sir?" Anthea lifted her eyebrows, her expression noncommittal.

"As if I was lost in thought or strangely preoccupied, perhaps?" he added, narrowing his eyes a fraction.

Anthea shook her head. "I'm very much afraid Mr Holmes, that such an expression seems to be your default mode," she gave a small shrug. "If you're not actually speaking or writing, then you always appear to be thinking, and I don't know you well enough yet to spot the external differences to your internal mental states, sir," she looked thoughtful. "Why? Are you experiencing some form of intermittent fugue? Do you need a doctor?"

Tightening his face in frustration, Mycroft sat back in his well-appointed chair, steepling his fingers. "Not at this time," he answered slowly. "But I seem to be experiencing short periods where my thinking becomes ... distracted, a most unproductive state of affairs," he said. "I'm monitoring the situation, but I'd appreciate if you'd check with me should I become visible inattentive or appear to be absentminded for no particular reason," he said. "It's likely nothing, or at most, my brain's way of telling me that it's working through a problem I haven't yet consciously identified," he narrowed his eyes again and looked introspective. "Though I wonder what problem might task it so terribly that it takes even my surface awareness from me," he looked, if anything, even more frustrated than before.

"Of course, Mr Holmes," Anthea was genuinely concerned. The last thing she wanted was for this man to spoil all her years of planning by retiring early through ill-health. She wanted Mycroft Holmes in tip-top shape when she finally killed him. "But I really do urge you to seek a medical opinion if you're not feeling quite the thing," she said. "I'm still learning what you do, but I already know you are pivotal to so many critical government projects, none of which would be able to function if you are taken ill for any appreciable time," she looked slightly anxious. "It would be advisable not to take risks with your health," she added. "It's simply not worth it and I'm somewhat surprised you don't have some regular mandatory health review," Anthea looked thoughtful. "Or do you?"

While it was mildly soothing to have one's personal staff express such heartfelt concern for one's health, Mycroft was well aware they were edging into problematic conversational territory. There had been a number of things he'd not spoken of even to Jude Roberts, a man who'd stayed with him for far longer than any of his other personnel. "There is nothing wrong with my health, thank you," he smiled fleetingly, turning his eyes back to the pile of papers on his desk. "I'm just curious about my unusual preoccupation," he paused, pursing his mouth. "My brother has a mind-palace where he keeps all his problems of note," he sounded a little rueful. "Perhaps a little self-reflection on my situation might not be such a bad idea at that," he lifted his eyes to his new assistant. "I'm fine, thank you for the concern. Just get that translated for me," he waved a finger at the slip of paper in her hands, "and I'll have one less thing in my thoughts," he smiled briefly again. "Perhaps I need a holiday."

"I'd be very happy to carry everything as far as I could if it allowed you to take a few day's rest, sir." Both of them knew her knowledge and specialist skills were already sufficient to manage some of the things that landed on Mycroft's desk, but by no means all of them. The offer was well-intended, but somewhat futile.

Mycroft saw again that he had chosen well when he'd selected this particular woman as his latest assistant; she had all the characteristics he sought; dedication, conscientiousness and the ability to understand the extraordinarily precarious nature of the work. Though there had been a few small gaps in her vetted background which were still on the review list, he was rather pleased with his choice. It annoyed him a little that she had no definitive family for him to evaluate, but orphans were so frequently in-and-out of the foster system that such a nuclear group often never eventuated. He wondered who her biological parents were and what their temperaments had been like to produce such progeny as she. Regardless of all of which, she was here now, looking at him with clearly apprehensive eyes. He smiled again.

"I assure you I would not dream of placing such a burden on anyone's shoulders, especially on shoulders that have been in the department for anything less than a year," he leaned back in his chair, looking at her assessingly. "But it's good to know that you're willing to take on further responsibility," he added. "The work this department handles is rarely commonplace."

"Then please make a list of any tasks I might productively take away from your overly-busy mind, even if it's just the mundane stuff," Anthea stepped towards the open office door. "You have no idea how important this job is to me; I really don't want any other director in that chair but you for the foreseeable future, Mr Holmes," she added, vanishing with a smile into her office.

Blinking slowly, Mycroft pondered the situation. Perhaps he was, for some unknown reason, tired, though that in itself would be extraordinary. Or perhaps it was something else entirely that he'd never understand unless things came to a critical pass and forced the issue into the light. At times like this, Mycroft felt a small regret at having to deal with Daveth, his maker, in such a terminal manner; the ancient vampire had been the only one who might have provided answers to the myriad questions that buzzed against the walls of Mycroft's mind like bluebottles against the pane of a window. Not for the first time, he wondered how it might be possible to identify and contact any of the Others out there; he knew there had to be at least a few other vampires in Britain, though none had given themselves away in any of the two thousand years since his own genesis.

Staring down at his desk, Mycroft realised he was not going to do anything more in here on this day. He checked his Hunter, though it was early for him to leave Whitehall at such a time, the mid-winter day beyond these solid walls was already drawing down and it would be dark soon. Lifting the nearest phone, he summoned his driver and car. He was going to go home and have another look at his books to see if there might be anything of consequence that he'd missed the previous night.

###

Fabulous house. Fabulous architecture. Fabulous décor and furnishing; Ellis Wilde had run out of superlatives long before they'd made it into the main Drawing-room, where a great modern grand piano gleamed beautifully. Her mother's banged up old Cramer was nothing like this shining piece of art and Ellis felt her fingers itch to caress the slumbering ivory keys. The entire place was like a living museum in its own right; there were artefacts throughout the downstairs rooms that many a municipal collection would sell their souls to possess. The Imari vase filled with red lilies and just sitting nonchalantly on a side table must have been worth thousands all by itself. Ellis didn't usually consider herself an avaricious person, but for all these wonderful things to be in an individual family ...

"Well, I think we'd best draw this little tour to an end soon," Kitta turned and smiled. "The family will be home soon and I'll need to get dinner on."

"Oh, of course," Ellis suddenly felt awful; not only had she virtually forced this sick old woman to show her around the main public rooms of the house, but she'd made the tour drag on much longer than necessary, simply because she'd found something wonderful to gaze at behind each door and around every corner. "I'm so dreadfully sorry to have imposed," she murmured, a warm flush tinting her cheeks in mortification. "And you so unwell," Ellis make a contrite face. "Please forgive me; I'll leave right away," she paused, taking one last look, her eyes settling on a long portrait of a tall, dark-haired man dressed in mid-Victorian regimentals. Even at a distance, the man's face seemed to draw her closer and she stepped forward without thought.

"Yes, well, that might be best," Kit interrupted the silence and went to stand by the door, an obvious sign that Ellis had overstayed her impromptu welcome.

After offering her profound thanks and sincere apologies, the historian found herself once more out on the pavement, the great front door closing softly against the darkening evening. Crossing the road, she turned to get one last look at the house, just as a long black Jaguar pulled into the kerb, the driver leaping out to open the rear door. A tall, dark-haired man stepped smartly up the steps towards the door, clearly the family-member the old lady had mentioned.

It was at that moment that Ellis knew she'd have to find out who the man was, who his family was; she wanted another look inside the house. The solder in the drawing room portrait was wearing a greatcoat which was the twin of the one she'd examined so carefully in the London Museum's clean room barely two days before.

 

###

 

 **Note:** Work has turned particularly feral and is likely to continue is this way for at least the next couple of months, possibly until the end of the year. Unfortunately, this is likely to mean updates might not be as frequent as I usually have them. I'll do my best, but there's only so many hours in the week. Cheers.

 

 


	6. in which suspicions are raised.

 

The second Mycroft stepped inside the front door, he knew a stranger had been in the house; the faint melody of a woman's perfume lingered in the air. It wasn't the fragrance that Kit habitually wore, nor was it the day that the cleaning team usually arrived, ergo unless his housekeeper had changed her taste quite radically ... He wondered what woman Kit would have brought into the house ... and taken _around_ the house he realised, as the slight echo of perfume came at him from several directions. A normal human probably wouldn't even have picked up the trace of fragrance, but it was there, suspended all around him. Heading into the kitchen, Mycroft saw Kit seated in her usual seat, hands folded before her. The silver tray containing all the elements of his evening libation were arranged as they had been every evening for the last uncounted years and he smiled. No matter what else might be uncertain in this reality of his, Kit was always there, the solid rock at the heart of his most private life.

Tonight's offering was an exotic melange of cucumber and ribbons of blood orange which swirled around in the icy grey-blue glass of vodka, adding a striking citrus piquancy to the air. He smiled again. Human or vampire, he did enjoy these moments sitting at the kitchen table with his old friend. Lifting the tall glass he sipped and smiled again, about to quiz her on the nature of her recent guest when observing for the first time that Kit looked more tired than usual. In _fact_ ... he felt his eyebrows tensing into a small frown.

"Mycroft," without any ado, Kitta turned squarely to look at him, her expression vaguely sad, but fatalistic, her hand reaching over to rest on the back of his. "I know you'll find this out yourself one way or another, and there's no easy way for me to say this to you my dear, so I may as well just be done with it," she paused nevertheless, still searching for the best words. "I'm dying. The doctor don't give me a great deal of time left and I wanted to be the one to let you know that you weren't to worry and that everything's alright."

The chilled drink was suddenly tasteless in his mouth, its usual burn utterly faded in the enormity of the words in the air. Suddenly he couldn't even swallow, his throat a solid lump of stone, his chest tight and heavy with forgotten breath.

" _What?_ " he choked out through face-muscles that were rigid and unhelpful. " _What?_ "

"There, there," Kitta patted his hand as she poured her usual petite version of Mycroft's own cocktail. "Now don't take on; it was bound to happen sooner or later. I'm not exactly a spring chicken anymore you know," she sipped and smiled beatifically as the sharp bite of the vodka made itself known to the rest of her body. " _Oooh_ , this is a nice one," she swirled the orange and cucumber, smacked her lips and sipped again.

Mycroft sat locked in place in his seat. He knew what he'd heard; knew the words, the syntax of them, the significance of the sounds, but he was finding it difficult to associate any of this with the woman sitting across the table.

"You've had a second opinion, of course?" he managed to lean forward, resting his elbows on the table as the shock dissolved just sufficiently for him to move his arms. "You said _doctor_ , singular ... you've surely seen more than one of them?" Mycroft heard the merest whisper of a tremor in his voice.

"Yes, my lover," Kitta looked at him more gently. "I have indeed seen more than one and about the only thing they don't agree on is the time."

"Time?" Mycroft realised what Kit meant as soon as he asked.

"Yes. Though none of them say it'll be very long," she shrugged. "It's my heart, you see. A few months at best, but then I've had a bloody good run for my money, so I've no complaints."

 _She had no complaints_. Mycroft inhaled monstrously slowly, his mouth tightening into a harsh downwards curve as he reached for her free hand, holding it gently inside both of his own. "You've seen a specialist?" he demanded, leaning further forward, his eyes becoming dark and formidable. "I want you to see the very best; get whatever treatment you need ... go anywhere," he paused. "Switzerland has the very best doctors," his eyes widened as the thought struck him. "I'll take you there myself," he nodded. "The best medical attention the world can offer, the very latest treatments, the best hospitals, the most ..."

"Mycroft," Kitta smiled patiently, laying her other hand on the top of his. "My dear friend," she shook her head slowly, a soft smile curving her lips. "There's nothing to be done," she admonished him. "Not even a transplant would work; everything's just too worn out and I'm too old to fix and to be truthful, I don't even mind," she smiled softly again. "I've had a wonderful life and it's been enough, truly, it has."

Possibly for the first time in his very long existence, Mycroft had no idea what to say next. His mind started to articulate several potential statements, only to discard each one before it reached the level of sound. _Pompous. Fatuous. Domineering. Trite_. He lowered his eyes to the two pairs of clasped hands resting on the table and took a second slow breath. "Months?" He felt Kitta nodding.

"I'll likely not see midsummer," she spoke matter-of-factly. "Which is as it may be. I've got everything organised and I'll expect you to look after my will and all," she added.

"Of course," Mycroft's stare remained fixed on their entangled fingers. "Is there nothing that I can do _at all?_ " he looked up into a pair of blue eyes darker even than his own.

"There is one thing," Kit was nodding again. "One promise you can make me," she said.

"Anything," Mycroft sat back upright, his features reassembling themselves into his public face; the one that demanded impossible things and got them. "Name it."

"You must promise me that Sherlock will never hear a word of this from you," she gave him a shrewd look. "Not a breath of it, not a hint of a suggestion," Kitta paused. "I don't want that boy fretting about me when there's no need at all, and he would fret, no matter how grown up he wants to be about it. I'd like that not to happen."

A new frown settling across his brow, Mycroft looked troubled. "Sherlock is exceptionally observant and his deductive skills increasingly sophisticated," he murmured doubtfully. "Even I've given up attempting to conceal most things from him; he's also fully able to detect evasion even if he's unsure what is being concealed," he shook his head in distracted thought. "I'm not sure it would be possible. The only way would be to keep you apart until ..." he paused, a flash of anguish in his eyes.

"Hmm," Kit folded her arms, clearly displeased at that particular alternative. "Well then, I'll have to think about that, won't I?" she mused. "But whatever happens, I really don't want the boy getting himself all worked up like he did that time with the tortoise," Kit rolled her eyes. "That bloody tortoise," she grinned suddenly as old memories surfaced. "Couldn't get the blessed thing to wake up after its hibernation and he had it to nearly every vet in London," she sighed, picking up her glass of vodka and sipping with evident enjoyment. "I think I might have another one of these tonight," she said apropos of nothing. "I might even get ever so slightly tipsy."

"I don't want you doing anything around the house," Mycroft announced abruptly, lifting his own glass. "Not a thing. "I'll arrange a nurse for you and a couple of people to look after the house and do the cooking and all the other things you've been clearly doing far too much of," he looked severe. "I wish you'd told me this a long time ago," he sounded ever so slightly cross.

"Don't you get snarky with me," Kit raised a mild eyebrow. "I din't do nothing wrong 'cept get old, so less of your bossiness, young man," she managed to sound stern and vaguely pleased at the same time.

 _Young man_. He was thousands of years old and she but a fraction of that and yet, here they were, beginning their last dance. _Young man_. Mycroft couldn't help the way his mouth curved into a faint smile. "Let me at least organise you some help to make things easier, please?"

"Since I've been taking all those blessed pills they kept giving me, I've actually been feeling a damn sight better than I was," Kitta shrugged as she took another sip of her drink. "I'm quite alright to keep pottering around for as long as I can; I'll let the cleaning people do their thing and if I don't feel like cooking then you can order me something in from one of those fancy restaurant places around here," she said. "I'll be fine right up until the end and that's the way I'd prefer it to be, I think," she added. "'Sides, if I don't want Sherlock to worry, then we've got the keep everything the same as normal, don't we?"

Narrowing his eyes as he took in Kit's excessively innocent face, Mycroft picked up his drink and sipped slowly, his gaze never wavering. "You're a royal pain in the arse, you really do know that, don't you?"

Patting his hand again, Kitta beamed. "Of course I knows it," she laughed, taking an overlarge gulp of her cocktail and coughing hard as the fiery liquor went down the wrong way. As she coughed and spluttered and Mycroft hung awkwardly in his chair, unsure of what to do, the sound of the front-door closing echoed down the passage, followed by sure footsteps.

"I see you're still upsetting people, Mycroft," Sherlock stood in the kitchen doorway pulling leather gloves from his fingers as he surveyed the scene before him. "And old ladies at that," he raised his eyebrows in censure. "What next? Setting the dogs on boy scouts? Launching Scud-missiles against the local vicarage? _Tsk, tsk_ ," he tutted, pausing as he took in Kit's pallor before dropping a pecked kiss on her cheek.

"We don't have dogs," Mycroft leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs, a closed expression shutting down his face.

"I notice you say nothing about the missiles," Sherlock leaned down to meet Kitta's watering eyes which she wiped with a handkerchief before blowing her nose. "You don't look well," he said, still assessing her, a frown gathering at the edge of his mouth.

"Got a cold," she muttered thickly, covering half her face with the square of white cotton. "Don't come too close or you'll catch it off me and then you'll be sorry."

Staring at her for a few additional seconds, Sherlock stood back upright, blinking. "Nonsense," he announced "I never get colds." He turned to Mycroft. "We need to talk."

Standing promptly, hopeful to get Sherlock out of the kitchen before he started to question Kit any further, Mycroft turned towards the door. "Sounds like a discussion we should have in my study," he said, a hand indicating Sherlock should precede him.

Pausing momentarily, Sherlock looked at the older man and frowned again before swivelling on his heels and striding off down the passage with Mycroft right behind him. The second the study door was closed, Sherlock plonked himself into a chair. "What's the matter with Kit?" he demanded. "I've seen her when she's had colds before and usually I can smell the Vic's chest-rub the second I walk in the front door," he flattened his mouth and looked sceptical. "This time all I can smell is vodka and orange," he added. "So what's the real problem?"

Taking a sip from the glass he brought with him from the kitchen, Mycroft leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers across his chest. He realised there was only one possible way to stop Sherlock ferreting out the truth, and that was to give it to him. Some of it. "Kit's getting on, Sherlock," he said. "She's not as fit as she once was and the doctor has prescribed some medication to pep her up a little," he offered in a vaguely off-handed manner. "I don't think she enjoys it very much."

"Getting old or taking an iron tonic?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Her fingernails were pale and she was looking a little anaemic around the eyes," he said. "That stuff is pretty vile; the number of times she made me choke it down as a child. No wonder she was knocking back your best vodka."

"You always were a little delicate of constitution," Mycroft sipped judiciously from his glass. If he was to keep the secret he'd promised to keep only minutes earlier, he'd have to tread exquisitely carefully. "I found it endlessly ironic that of the two of us, you were the one with incipient anaemia."

Having had his concerns regarding Kit virtually dismissed, Sherlock leaned forward, determined to raise the real issue behind his visit. "An interesting point and the perfect segue into the reason for my being here this evening."

Vastly relieved that Sherlock appeared to have accepted the redacted story of Kitta's ill-health, Mycroft almost missed the stressed tone in Sherlock's voice that suggested an element of real concern. Whatever it was the boy wished to discuss was causing him genuine disquiet. "What's the problem?"

"There's been a series of unconventional deaths in the last couple of weeks that the Met have been keeping strictly under wraps since before Christmas."

Mycroft frowned over the top of his glass. There'd been nothing in any of the Nationals, and he'd heard of no recent new DA-notices. Considering he was one of the people usually responsible for issuing them, this news was an unwelcome surprise.

"So you _haven't_ heard," Sherlock's tone as he sat back in his chair made it clear he had deduced Mycroft's situation. "I wonder why nothing about this has gotten through to your department?" he mused, his grey-blue eyes watched the older man deliberate the identical question. "I would've thought your lot would have been all over this like wasps at a picnic."

"I've heard nothing of any unusual killings, nothing out of the ordinary," Mycroft pursed his mouth. "Define unconventional."

"Murder by vampire," Sherlock's gaze was fixed unmovably on the elder Holmes' expression. "Death by exsanguination and brutal dismemberment."

Responding to this second alarm of the evening, Mycroft felt his body freeze into absolute stillness as before, this second shock taking several moments longer than usual to dissipate. His face felt stiff and unwieldy. The only other vampire he had ever known was Daveth, and he'd been dead for a quarter-century, crushed into dust beneath thousands of tons of granite. Could there be other vampires in London? It was a question he'd asked himself many, many times in the past. Of course, hypothetically, there had to be, if only one or two, each as determined as he to remain unnoticed and unrecognised for what they were. But who? And where? And if so, why advertise themselves in such a blatant fashion?

"The authorities are sure of this?" Mycroft eventually found his voice after clearing his throat. "There is indisputable proof?"

Making an irritated face and flapping his hand dismissively, Sherlock stared up at the intricately painted ceiling. "At the moment, the idea is still more of a joke than an authentic belief there may be a real vampire in London," he said. "But I've read all of your secret books, don't forget," he added. "I know what to look for," he paused, as if in thought. "You seem distracted," he added, bringing his stare back down from the heavens. "What is it you're not telling me?"

"Do I?" Mycroft was still mindful of the need to divert Sherlock's attention away from Kit. And now on top of this first problem, the younger man seemed to be giving him another. "I really have no idea what you mean."

"Mycroft, I come here specifically to tell you that there's a murderous vampire on the loose in London, and all you can do is be vague and non-committal?" Sherlock flung himself further back into his chair. "I'd have thought that you'd be at least _somewhat_ curious about this," he added, pausing. "Why aren't you curious? You really should be, you know."

"Of course I'm curious," Mycroft felt his brain kick back into a higher gear now that the second shock had begun to wear off. "And if you say it was a genuine vampire and not some psychotic thug with filed teeth, out of his mind on the latest boutique pharmaceutical, then I have no reason to doubt you, though I'm not sure what it is you expect me to say or do about the situation."

Sherlock looked taken aback. "But you're a vampire," he frowned.

"Stating the obvious, but yes," Mycroft steepled his fingers and raised both eyebrows.

"Surely you want to ensure that no possible connection can be made between you and this situation, no matter how tenuously?" Sherlock continued, an uneasy feeling growing at what seemed to be Mycroft's complete disinterest in the situation.

"I'm fairly sure I'd remember if I'd been involved in any brutal slayings recently," Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "And since my conscience is apparently clear on that count, I see no reason to be overly concerned. The police have absolutely no reason to associate me with any wrongdoing."

Sherlock remembered the trail of tiny circles pressed into the dusty cement floor at the old furniture factory, and again at the derelict church. "Are you quite sure about that?" he asked, slowly.

The tone of his voice alerted Mycroft; something was up. "I was not involved, Sherlock," he shook his head. "I cannot be connected to this, yet you clearly think I might be. Why is this?"

"The murderer, or at least _one_ of the murderers, either of whom could be the vampire, stood and observed at least two of his victims die slowly before his eyes," Sherlock spoke carefully, watching Mycroft's face. "Since there are two distinct modes of killing, it's entirely possible that there are two individual killers, only one of whom is a vampire," Sherlock tapped a thumb against his lower lip. "He is a tall man who wears size eleven hand-made shoes," he began. "He smokes Silk Cut cigarettes and carries a long umbrella with a steel ferule, he added. "He has superb night-vision, excellent local knowledge and a vicious ruthlessness that would be difficult to match beyond either a top-ranked combat unit or a mental asylum ward," he finished, pausing before his next utterance. "Now you can see why I'm here this evening."

Mycroft felt his senses spin. Sherlock's description was unambiguously of him or someone very like him, and yet he had not killed anyone directly for … decades, and even _that_ had been in the line of duty, nothing to do with his vampiric nature. "All vampires have excellent night vision," he replied. "It's one of the physiological changes vampirism wreaks upon our human bodies, and as for smoking a particular brand of cigarette, millions of people do; no doubt there's a killer or two among them," he paused, thoughtfully. "As for the umbrella, I carry mine against the sunlight, so I see no reason why other vampires might not do the same and as for the rest of it …" Mycroft allowed an expression of impatience to cross his face. "I have no interest in abstract coincidences," he muttered, hesitating for a moment at the remembrance of the increasing periods of intellectual absence he'd noted in his office. Was it even marginally possible he might be doing things during these mental blackouts that he simply could not remember? Might he actually be experiencing much longer blackouts and simply not remembering anything at all about them?

Sherlock's gaze hadn't left Mycroft's face since he'd begun describing the killer. He'd watched as the older man's features rippled through myriad expressions as one thought followed another through his mind. He found it extraordinarily interesting that just when Mycroft had almost convinced him his concerns were utterly baseless, the old vampire's face had stilled as one last notion presented itself for consideration. And it was then that Sherlock saw the strangest look pass behind Mycroft's eyes.

It was the look of distant possibility.

Sitting deep in his chair, Sherlock pressed his palms together, the growing rigidity of his joined hands unheeded as he realised there was something very wrong here. Almost since they had begun talking this evening, Mycroft had been evasive and deliberately vague, almost as if ... almost as if he were trying to _hide_ something. There was no reason for this to be ... _unless he actually was trying to hide something_ , trying to keep something from being known; a secret. And Sherlock could only think of one conceivable thing right now. With a faint prickling of his skin, he started to wonder if Mycroft was more involved in these vampire murders than could possibly be imagined.

###

Ellis B Wilde had spent the best part of the day at the London Metropolitan Archives in Clerkenwell going through a raft of old parish records for the inner London area, and her face was grimy with old book dust, just as her fingertips were tender from paper-burn. She'd managed to narrow her search down to the Pall Mall area, knowing that she'd probably have to go through hundreds and hundreds of records before she located what she was after, assuming it even existed, of course.

And what she was after was the continuous timeline of occupancy of a certain residence in Pall Mall since it had been built in the mid-sixteen-hundreds. But there were so many old tomes of thousands and thousands of hand-scrawled records that she hadn't even found any mention the house yet and her eyes were already dry and sore. It wasn't as if she hadn't known what she was in for; this kind of search had mostly been digitised and put online these days, but what she sought wasn't going to be any neat little rummage; no, the information she was after was based not around a family, but around a _house_.

Sitting back in her chair and stretching to ease a cramped back, Ellis debated leaving everything and going out for a bit of a walk and a cup of strong coffee. The Met Archivists knew her well and would be fine with her just leaving everything as it was and escaping for some fresh air, even though the forecast had predicted some lovely January weather of icy Northerly winds combined with near-Arctic temperatures. Standing anyway, Ellis wondered if she were going at this all the wrong way. She knew the house she'd been in the previous evening was owned by a wealthy family with long-time connections to the British military – any fool with a pair of eyes could make that deduction from the paintings on the ground floor alone. Ellis was also pretty certain that the man in the last painting she'd seen was wearing either the very same greatcoat she'd examined in the London Museum cleanroom, or its identical twin, and while she hadn't seen any indication of someone wearing a French bicorn, she really hadn't expected to. But she'd absolutely love to see what other paintings there might be there. She also needed to know the name of the current family in residence, how long they'd been there and who else had lived at the address since it was built.

Turning back to the record books, Ellis decided to try a new tack. Instead of looking for any mention of the address, she began looking for the name _Hannis_. Knowing this was the name of the man who had ordered the French hat from Hawkes at the beginning of the nineteenth-century and who had been, in all likelihood, a British spy, Ellis wondered if she could find that name, whether there might be other clues to be found along with it. Opening up a record book for the turn of the century covering the surnames starting with HA, she began her search anew.

###

Anthea sat at her desk staring down at a plain sheet of paper carrying exactly three lines of text. ' _Hit sy forgitelnes angsumnes ond æfwerdelsa bréostcofa hwonne drút hwy béddagas ays eald ared,"_ Mycroft Holmes had handed over this piece of ancient nonsense and expected her to achieve a miracle and have it translated. Well, of course she'd found an expert in Old English, a long-retired English professor who, for a small but exorbitant consultancy fee was happy to act as a translator. He'd actually sighed and looked sad on reading the note, taking an old goose-feather quill and neatly writing down its contemporary meaning directly below the original sentence.

"I hope this will help," he said, handing the paper back. "Can you tell me why you wanted this particular message translated?"

The look in Anthea's eyes was her answer. "Thank you," she said, reading the few words the old man had just written. "It's possible I may need to call upon you again in the future. I assume the same arrangement will suffice?"

The old man nodded. "It will suffice," he said, pausing as she was about to leave. "Please give whoever it is my condolences," he murmured, closing the door between them.

 _Condolences?_ Anthea walked smartly towards the black car, folding the paper and tucking it into her jacket pocket. Why would Mycroft Holmes merit condolences?

###

Lestrade was sitting behind his desk, leaning about as far back in his chair as was possible without the thing tipping over. It was almost as if his body was rebelling against the latest piece of information that had come in and was, right now, staring up at him from about two feet away.

It had to be some sort of gruesome joke; some weird, trendy, black-magic shit that sometimes went around among the young, wealthy and stupid faction. Most likely some of the more moronic inbreds from Chelsea and Knightsbridge; they'd probably consider something like this to be a huge laugh.

But Greg wasn't laughing. He wasn't even smiling.

 _How could this be?_ How could forensics come back with DNA analysis that stated, in no uncertain terms, that the killer of at least two of the murder-victims wasn't _human_ ... wasn't even human ... Lestrade inhaled deeply and then let himself slump down as impossible ideas whirled around and around inside his head. It wasn't human, nor was it canine or from any of the big cats or any kind of predatory animal they'd been able to trace. So were the killings done by a man with some kind of mutant wolf-creature? DNA said there were some strangely mutated human cells, their oxygen-carrying capabilities oddly off, as well as a whole bunch of other inexplicable stuff. But the best any of them had been able to come up with was a large man with an equally large and ferocious animal. Which actually made sense in a gruesome sort of way, though nobody had seen any kind of paw-prints at either of the crime sites and it would have been one of the things Sherlock would have pounced on in a second if there had been, surely?

The profilers had been working all day on a potential suspect synopsis, but even they had admitted defeat after the mutant wolf theory. "It's either a huge beast of some kind or a real vampire," the Head of Pathology had sunk wearily into the visitor's chair in front of Greg's desk and looked exhausted.

"A _real_ vampire?" Lestrade didn't even attempt to keep the raw cynicism from his voice. "Is that what you people come up with when you've run out of proper ideas?" he asked. "'Cos if any of my lot tried that, I'd have their bloody badges on my desk before they could cross their fingers," he mocked. "There's no such things as vampires," he added flatly. "Creatures of the night? The Undead?" Greg laughed without humour. "Next you'll be telling me the samples you've been analysing don't like sunlight or having a crucifix anywhere near them," he scowled blackly, his expression making it very clear that such a theory would not be even remotely acceptable. "Come back when you've got a sensible hypothesis for me," he said, looking pointedly towards the exit. "And nothing with vampires in it!" he shouted towards the door as it closed.

###

And there it was, right in front of her eyes. Ellis sucked in her breath at the first real piece of good news she had all day. _Hannis_ , Raymond William. Born 1757 in the house in Pall Mall ... she rummaged around to find any further records of the Hannis family either before or after this one particular record, but once more, her search hit a wall. There seemed to be absolutely nothing at all about the Hannis family either in the old Katherine House Births and Deaths and Marriages, the several national censuses she'd meticulously gone through, not the parish records and not even the records of property ownership transactions, deeds and tax payments in the old City municipal archives. Ellis had exhausted almost every source she used on a regular basis ... the only other place she might try was the Civil Service archives, for which she had special access under the national Freedom of Information Act. For any normal person to be totally excluded from every standard national record was almost unheard of ... she sat back, folded her arms and sighed heavily. There was only one thing for it.

She had to get back into the Pall Mall house.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, before anyone asks, it's entirely normal for anyone in/from Cornwall to call another person/dog/post-office official/child/tourist/Prime Minister/relative/anyone 'my lover'. It's a local term of familiarity and is used in place of 'my dear' or 'old chum' or similar. Honest.


	7. in which certain important decisions are made.

 

The weather that morning had been grim; dark and rain-swept with the promise of hail or snow later. It was not the kind of day people spent wandering around the main London thoroughfares unless they had a bloody good reason. Thus, when the front-door bell jingled, Kit wondered who might be calling on such a day. " _I'm coming_ ," she called out as she walked to the front door when the bell tinkled a second time. "Hold your horses."

Swinging the heavy oak door inwards, she was greeted by the sight of the same young woman who'd been here the other evening when she'd had her funny turn. "Oh, hello," she paused, wondering why her Good Samaritan was back.

"Brought you these and this," Wrapped deeply within the confines of a thick winter coat, Ellis held up a small bunch of very early daffodils, obviously hot-house forced, and a small wooden box of Cornish clotted cream.

"What lovely daffs," Kit couldn't help but lean forward, breathing in the delicate perfume of the bright yellow blooms, which, along with the snowdrops and early crocuses, were the first signs of Spring. "And what's the cream for?" she asked taking the flowers as they were handed over.

"The flowers are for you and the cream ..." the younger woman reached down to the step by her feet to pick up a blue-and-yellow brightly striped baker's box, flipping the lid open to expose a half-dozen freshly made scones and several tiny pots of home-made jam," is for these," she added, smiling. "How are you feeling today?"

Unable to resist the unexpected surprised, Kit smiled back. "Feeling much better, thank you," she looked at the woman's bright eyes. "Come on in then," she said, waving her hands for the woman's damp coat. "I'll make us a cup of tea and put these flowers in water."

Hopping up the last couple of steps and closing the big door behind her, once divested of her heavy camel cashmere, Ellis followed the old housekeeper back into the kitchen where they'd been the other day. "You're sounding better," she observed. "Have you been alright?"

"Right as rain," Kit brought out a small crystal vase from one of the tall cupboards. "It was just me being silly; nothing to worry about at all," she added, filling the vase with water and putting it down, before reaching over for the kettle. "But it's very thoughtful of you to come back and ask," she said, smiling again. "And to bring both flowers and some good, old-fashioned Cornish cream," Kit rolled her eyes dramatically. "Anyone would think you was buttering me up for something."

Ellis had the good grace to look sheepish. "Well, I _did_ want to come by and check you were feeling better," she said, "but I'd by telling fibs if I pretended that was the only reason I'm here."

"It's the paintings, in't it?" Kit sighed and shook her head gently, still smiling as she warmed the teapot. "I knew it as soon as I saw your face when you was looking at them," she added, measuring out the loose tea. "You being an historian and all."

"I really did want to come by and see you were better," Ellis looked around for a china cabinet. "Plates?"

"That first big cupboard over yonder," Kit nodded as she poured boiling water into the teapot, giving it a swirl before putting the lid back on and adding an antique cosy. "And there's knives in the drawer right beneath where you are now," she added, fetching a couple of linen napkins from a drawer on the other side of the kitchen and two porcelain cups and saucers. "How do you like your tea? Lemon or milk?"

"Black with lemon for me please," Ellis allowed her fingertips to stroke down along the finely cut ridges of the exquisitely-made cabinetry that stood throughout the kitchen and as far beyond as she could see. She hadn't really noticed the first time she'd been in here, but even the basics in this house were glamorous, it seemed. "This is a lovely kitchen," she said, looking around, up to the ornate, pressed tin ceiling. "Everything here is quite wonderful, in fact."

"It is that," Kit finished pouring their tea and helped herself to a scone and one of the tiny pots of dark red jam. "I hadn't planned to have elevenses, but this is just too nice to miss," she piled on a small mound of the thick, yellow cream and bit deep, closing her eyes in bliss.

Sipping her tea, Ellis grinned at the older woman's expression; it was too spontaneous to be anything other than genuine. "I'm pleased you're feeling more yourself," she said, reaching over for a scone. "And I really did want to see that you were better," she added, "though you're quite right," Ellis nodded as she tried a scone and cream herself. It was sensational. "It was that last painting in the Drawing Room that got me," she paused, chewing and swallowing. "Would you mind awfully if I took another look at it?" she asked optimistically. "It is entirely to do with my work and not me being unconscionably nosy," she said. "It's simply that there are things in this house I've never seen before, not even in a museum and you have absolutely no idea what this kind of spectacle does to someone like me who's an absolute nut for history," Ellis shrugged and looked hopeful even though she knew she was being a bit cheeky.

"This is a private home, you know," Kitta polished off the second half of her scone and drank some tea with clear relish. "This isn't something I would normally even think of doing," she added, thoughtfully.

"But you'll let me see the painting again, at least, won't you?" Ellis clenched her hands together so tightly her nails went white. "I promise to leave the minute you feel I've overstepped the boundaries of good behaviour."

Shaking her head and grinning again, Kit sighed. Sherlock had been just the same when he wanted to do something new; such enthusiasm was difficult to resist. And why bother resisting? Life was short.

"Of course you can come see the painting again," she nodded at the kitchen door. "And anything else down here that takes your fancy, though you'll need to be off before Mr Holmes returns for the evening," she said. "It wouldn't do for his schedule to be interrupted."

"Holmes?" Ellis couldn't help but note the similarity between that particular name and _Hannis_ , the one she'd been searching high and low for, over the last week. "Is that the family who live here now?"

"It is," Kitta walked down the long passage towards the drawing Room. "Though there's only Himself now; young Mr Holmes having up and left some years back, though he do still come home when the mood strikes him."

"So ... father and son?" Ellis asked, though she drifted forward without waiting for an answer, finding herself standing once more under the great, full-length portrait of a man in mid-Victorian regimentals, the greatcoat slung carelessly over his shoulders as he stood, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other holding a polished, white-plumed Guard's helmet. Oddly, the background of the painting suggested it had been sat for at night; there was a moon rather than a sun at the window in the painting's background. Not that it mattered really; the key feature was the man in the scarlet uniform, not what was behind him.

 _A tall man with a determined military stance; tall and with a deceptively lean physique. He might be blond or brunet or have wavy hair the_ _colour_ _of midnight, but he would have been handsome_ ... Ellis recalled her own fanciful imaginings the first time she examined the old uniforms in the London Museum clean room. _Not a General, not quite grand enough, nor yet a Brigadier-general, but not much lower. Lieutenant-Colonel looked about right; something with authority but not at the highest level._ The uniformed man in the painting was clearly a senior British officer, the amount of gold braid at the shoulders and breast, as well as the gold rigging at the collar and cuffs suggested colonel or thereabouts. The man himself was clean-shaven, odd in itself given the fashion of the time, but he was indeed tall and dark, though his remote, haughty countenance made it hard to see him as either handsome or not. He certainly wasn't hard to look at, but his expression seemed detached and ... strangely cold.

The glint of metal on the wall immediately beneath the large painting caught her eye, though it took Ellis several seconds to comprehend what was in front of her. A regimental sword, yes; but not just any old blade. This was a 1908 British Cavalry Trooper's sword, reputed to be the most perfect sword ever designed. Automatically stepping closer and stretching out her hand, fingertips close, though not touching, Ellis realised she'd made a mistake. This wasn't the 1908 pattern, amazing though that would have been. No, this was the far rarer 1912 design, the officer's version of the trooper's model. Not only that, but this one had clearly been a bespoke commission for a most specific client; the gleaming gold inlay at the hilt was stupendously intricate and ornate. Even though swordcraft was not her particular speciality, Ellis knew enough to reckon this one unique and as difficult to find a similar specimen today as it would be to discover a lost Stradivari. The brutal splendour of this one-handed lance lay innocently across three padded stanchions, an ancient gold tassel hanging motionless from the simply curved handle. It was a thing of deathless beauty and Ellis felt her mouth go dry. It was worth many multiple thousands of pounds and though she ached to pick it up and feel its tempered steel weight in her hand, she knew far better than to ever try.

"This is amazing," she whispered, straightening up and taking a deep breath as she turned. "This is _all_ amazing ... just stunning," she breathed, moving her eyes to the Imari vase she'd noticed the other day. The flowers had been changed and the lilies were now the colour of fragile white parchment, but the large and ornate piece of porcelain glowed wondrously in the artfully-placed downlights. On the wall to the left of the vase, her eye was caught by yet another heavy-framed oil painting, an eighteenth-century David Wilkie unless she was mistaken, adjacent to a huge Venetian mirror which had to be at least four-hundred years old, the delicately clouded silver surface unmistakably the creation of the ancient glass-masters of Italy. It matched the pair of strategically placed Venetian chandeliers, their clear glass ornamentation cleverly echoed in the figuration of the William Morris wallpaper. Turning on the spot, Ellis realised that everywhere she looked in this room, there were things of magnificent wealth and stunning beauty ... the collection of silver snuff-boxes on the George Third Pembroke table; the small group of silver-framed portrait miniatures, the pair of William and Mary candlesticks on the mantelpiece ... though the striking piano in the centre of the room was relatively modern; no more than sixty or so years old at most, it too was a classic of its kind and superb in this room. Even the softness of the Persian silk rug beneath her feet told her she was in the presence of an astonishing collection brought together over centuries.

Her throat too dry to speak and with her heart beating too loud in her ears and feeling momentarily dizzy, Ellis closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, trying to re-orient herself in this great chamber of magnificent mysteries. She could spend a year cataloguing this room alone, never mind the rest of the house.

 _The rest of the house_ ...

"I think, Kit, that I'm going to need to speak to your Mr Holmes," her voice barely more than a croak, Ellis turned to meet Kit's gaze, only to freeze in utter disbelief.

The officer from the painting was standing in the doorway directly behind the old woman. Dressed in dark clothes and with a face as white as a ghost, the man's expression was both shocked and shocking. Ellis felt her eyes widen and her head spin again until the room around her seemed to tilt on its axis.

###

Sherlock was seated in Lestrade's own chair, leafing through one of the manila folders stacked neatly on the DI's cluttered, semi-organised desk.

"Oy, you," Greg stood just inside the door to his office; an office that had been blissfully Holmes-free when he'd left in search of caffeine. "Get your unauthorised civilian arse out from behind my desk," he growled, without heat. "I get enough flack from my lot as it is without you swanning in here not giving even a nod of professional courtesy," he added, a jerk of his thumb indicating the young Holmes' departure should not be leisurely. "And how the bloody hell did you even get in here in the first place?"

"There's nothing here that adds to anything I need to know anyway," Sherlock ignored the question and sighed briefly before frowning. Sliding easily around the far end of the desk, he slumped silently into one of Greg's visitor's chairs. "Have your forensic minions managed to agree on the blood-analysis yet, or does the squabble continue?"

Dropping into his chair and rubbing a hand over his face, Lestrade puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. "Apparently the only thing they can agree on is that there's something really weird about the killer's DNA," he said. "The cells are mutated," he added. "Human, though not _really_ human," he shook his head. "Something like a messed-up cross between an animal and a human, if you can believe that," Greg scoffed, dragging fingers through his hair. "They even had the nerve to suggest there might actually be a human who was physically disposed towards vampirism," he laughed bleakly. "It would rewrite the history books if it were true," he sighed, shaking his head again.

"Might I obtain a sample for my own tests?" Sherlock spoke carefully, not wishing to sound excessively interested. If he could get his hands on a sample of the killer's DNA and compare that to a sample from Mycroft ... "I am a graduate chemist, you know. I might be able to shed some light on things."

Wrinkling his nose, Lestrade clearly wasn't enamoured of the idea. "It's more about maintaining the chain of evidence than anything else," he pondered doubtfully. "I'll see what I can do, but no promises, mind you."

Realising it was probably as much as he could hope for, Sherlock said nothing but nodded briefly. "Did you find any CCTV coverage of the two kill-zones?" he asked, not really expecting there to be any. The killer, or _killers_ , were far too careful to leave such things as video evidence to chance; he – or _they_ – likely either knew to avoid any cameras in the area, or had taken steps to ensure the technology would not work.

"There's wasn't any out by the old factory," Greg made a face, "and while there were actually three cameras in the general area of the old church, two had been vandalised several nights before the killings and the third was, for some unknown reason, pointing directly upwards at the sky, and gave us nothing but a nice clear shot of Venus in transit," he sighed, leaning forward on his desk. "I tell you, Sherlock," he said in a low tone. "This one is really giving me the willies and I'm not sure we're going to get anywhere with the evidence we already have."

"Meaning you're going to have to wait for the next deaths?" Sherlock looked sour.

"It seems likely," Lestrade looked equally unhappy. "But we have almost nothing to go on; no reliable DNA, no witnesses, nothing useful on any of the victims; no CCTV, nothing. There's not even a whisper out on the streets," he leaned back in his chair and began to chew the end of a biro. "Either we're dealing with an exceptionally clever and well-informed killer or killers, or there's something very fishy going on."

"Fishy?" Sherlock already knew what the inspector was about to say, but felt he had to ask; it would seem odd if he didn't and the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to either himself or anyone close to him.

"This smells of a cover-up," Greg savaged his pen. "Something going on the Powers-that-Be don't want us to know about," he nodded sagely. "Everything's happened just a little bit too cleverly, just a fraction too carefully concealed," he added, waving the mauled remains of the ballpoint in the air. "Take the forensics, for instance," he scowled violently. "Someone's obviously playing silly buggers; which is not helping the investigation one little bit."

 _If only you knew how correct your forensic people were_ ... Sherlock kept his expression immobile as the inspector indulged in a minor rant.

"In which case," Greg leaned suddenly forward, fixing the younger man with a dark and immovable stare. "Who is being protected here?" he demanded. "If what little evidence we have is impossible to accept, and there appears to be no useful lead coming out of any of this stuff, then either something is being covered up or ..." he paused, thoughtfully. "Or this whole thing has been orchestrated, if not actually undertaken by someone with an inside knowledge of police and forensic procedures," he paused, seeming to have a bitter taste in his mouth. "Whatever it is, there's definitely something amiss here," he added, "and it's beginning to smell to high heaven."

"Or perhaps there really is a vampire," Sherlock watched Lestrade's face.

The silver-haired man turned an acidic eye in his direction. "I'll believe that the day you introduce me a real live vampire, and not a second before," he snapped. "Now if you don't have anything better to do with your time than to pester me, either go through the rest of these pending cases or bugger the hell off."

Raising a solitary eyebrow, Sherlock leaned forward and pulled the pile of manila folders closer. Whatever else happened, he had to keep Mycroft's name out of any of this, and the best way to do that was to find a better one to put in its place.

###

It was because the weather that morning has been so grey and dark, that Mycroft decided to make an unexpected visit home to ensure Kit was doing as she'd been advised and was taking things easy, preferably in the kitchen, drinking tea, or in her private rooms, lying down for a nap. If she wasn't, he felt sure he'd be able to convince her of the wisdom of such activities. Late morning traffic in the city was hellish, and, had the Jaguar not actually been there and waiting, Mycroft felt he might have taken the most unusual step of walking home in the middle of the day. Normally an inconceivable undertaking, today, the sky was so overcast and dark, it felt like early evening and a few minutes' walk would do him no harm at all.

Arriving at home and unlocking the front door, he was struck once again by the whisper of a woman's fragrance that lingered in the air around him. The same unrecognised perfume he'd noticed the other day when Kit had shared her unwelcome news with him. She had a visitor? He wondered which of her many friends had called over on this dark and dreary London morning. Not that he knew any of them well, but he felt sure he'd have remembered the perfume if nothing else. And he'd never encountered it before; of that he was certain. A new acquaintance? A medical person, perhaps? Someone she'd met while doing the rounds of doctors and health professionals? The faint murmur of voices through the open doorway of the Drawing Room suggested he'd soon find out. Soundlessly, he walked down the passage and stood in the doorway, observing everything within in microseconds.

A stranger, a woman with hair the gold of early autumn leaves, stood in the middle of the room staring around the walls. As she muttered something to Kit about wanting to speak to him, she turned and in that second, he saw her suddenly widening eyes were as pale as blue cornflowers and her complexion as smooth and fine as milk. Mycroft felt his entire body slam to a standstill as a spirit from his long-dead past stood before him. How could this be … a complete stranger and yet someone he knew almost as well as he knew himself.

_Beryan ..._

Unable to move or speak, he simply stood in the doorway, stunned and mute; the shock of seeing her again so great that his mind plummeted into a well of stillness. Judging by the horrified expression on the woman's face, she was just as shocked at seeing him standing in the doorway, and he watched as she began to raise a hand, even as her eyes rolled up into her head and her knees buckled.

Making instinctive use of his greater-than-human speed, he was able to reach her just before her body hit the carpet, and she hung limp in his arms. " _Kit?_ " he demanded, rather intensely, without looking away, even for a second, from the impossibility of the woman in his embrace.

Gathering her wits after what had been a brief though dramatic interlude, Kitta inhaled quickly. "Fainted," she announced, pragmatically. "Lie her down on the sofa here and raise her feet," she said, grabbing a couple of cushions and stacking them beneath Ellis' ankles as Mycroft laid the unconscious woman cautiously down on the wide couch. "No idea why she'd do that," Kit stood back, watching the unfolding drama. "She was right as ninepence not a minute ago."

Mycroft found he was still suffering from a temporary lack of speech as he stared down at the prone form of the woman he'd imagined as nothing more than dust for nearly two millennia. "I know this woman," he whispered, a fragility in his speech Kit had never heard before, not one in all the years she'd known the man.

"You've met Dr Wilde before?"

 _Dr Wilde? One of Kit's medical advisors?_ "I've never met this woman before, but I know her," he said, crouching down so that his eyes were almost level with the unconscious Ellis. "It's a long story."

"Your stories inevitably are," Kitta sighed dryly and headed back through the open doorway. "She'll be waking up shortly; I'll go put the kettle on and make some fresh tea."

"Tea ... _yes_ ," Mycroft muttered. Tea was good. Tea solved things. He nodded absently, unable to tear his eyes from luminous pale skin and coppery-golden hair. It was her. _It was Beryan_. She had been dead for two thousand years, but it was undoubtedly she. _Dr Wilde?_ Mycroft found his mouth curving at one side. Her nature had been wild when he'd known her before. Apparently fate had a sense of humour after all.

Ellis stirred fractionally, her breathing changing as a small frown gathered between her still-closed eyes. Realising she was lying down, she ran a fast situation-check before she did anything else. Why was she lying down? Had there been an accident? Was she in pain? Was she in danger? It was the scent of lilies that finally brought her back to the present. She was in the big Pall Mall house and had been looking at the paintings.

So why was she lying down with her eyes closed? She frowned.

And immediately remembered, opening her eyes wide in the same moment, only to meet a pair of darker blue ones staring back at her from no more than a few feet away.

She gasped and jerked back against the couch.

Mycroft lurched away in the opposite direction. "My profound apologies," he said, rising abruptly to his feet and moving out of her immediate space. "I'm terribly sorry," he added, floundering a little. "I merely wished to be sure you were recovering from your faint," he said. "Kit said you'd be yourself again very soon."

Finding she was not in pain nor felt unwell in the least, Ellis blinked a few times before easing herself upwards to a sitting position.

"Until we can ascertain the reason for your sudden, um ... why you, _ah_ ..." unusually fumbling for words, Mycroft gestured uselessly towards the sofa. "Mightn't it be wise to lie still?"

Feeling more herself with every passing moment, Ellis took a deep breath and sat up straighter. "If you say I fainted, I'll believe you, but it was only because you gave me such a shock appearing like that in the doorway," she said, making an attempt to rise to her feet, only to discover her knees were being less than co-operative.

Mycroft found himself reacting instinctively once again as he stepped immediately to support her arm. _He had given her a shock?_ Had she recognised him too? "I think you need to rest a while longer until you are quite better," he urged, a strange tingle in his fingers as they clasped the warmth of her arm through her sleeve.

"Tea's up," Kit announced, returning with a tray of tea-things which Mycroft took away from her with an admonishing glance. "Kit, _sit_ ," he directed instantly. "I thought you agreed to take care not to overdo things?"

"Making a pot of tea's hardly overdoing anything," Kit's reply was tart but she sat on the sofa anyway, her experienced eyes running over the still-groggy historian. "You took a turn there, girl," she said. "Looked like you had a bit of an upset, was it?"

Taking the cup of tea which Mycroft handed across, Ellis sipped thankfully. "I'm dreadfully sorry to be a nuisance," she smiled, fishing in her jacket pocket for one of her cards which she handed him in exchange for the tea. "It was just seeing your face, you see," she added, as if that explained everything.

 _His face?_ Did she really know him?

Glancing down at the scrap of white in his hand, Mycroft focused on the woman's details and on the title _Research Historian_ beneath the name.

Dr Ellis B. Wilde.

 _It couldn't be_ ... but Mycroft felt a strange sense of excitement prickle through his entire body. It was an impossibility, but given there were at least two other impossibilities in the room, then perhaps the impossible was not quite so unfeasible after all. "And the initial stands for ..?" he murmured, still staring down at the small rectangle of card. "It wouldn't be _Beryan_ by any remote chance, would it?"

Ellis dropped her cup back into the sauce with such a loud _clink_ that made Kit fear for the porcelain.

"Now why on earth would you think of _that_ name?" Ellis allowed her own gaze to sharpen significantly as she focused on the tall man in the dark suit. The tall man in the dark suit who looked as if he'd just stepped down from the life-size painting on the wall behind her. The life-sized painting of the British military officer painted at least 150 years ago and yet who was the absolute spitting image of the man currently holding her business card and staring at her with a strange kind of yearning on his face.

The tone of the younger woman's voice held an intriguing note and Kitta narrowed her eyes. Something very odd was going on here, though not for the life of her could she work out what it was. Not yet. Looking vaguely sideways, she saw Mycroft lean a little closer, his features sharp with attention and his eyes ... his eyes were glued to the visitor's face as if his life depended on what she might say next. _He'd never met her before but he knew her?_ Stranger and stranger. Yet from the expression on his face and the look in the young doctor's eyes, there was definitely something afoot. Keeping her own council, Kit said nothing and sipped her tea. She hadn't been Mycroft's Housekeeper all these long years and not picked up a thing or two about his behaviour. Especially about his behaviour when he wasn't interested in something. Even more especially about his behaviour when he _was_ intensely interested in something but trying not to let it show. Oh yes; Kitta knew the man's little tells; the way his head tilted ever so slightly to the right, the way his eyes narrowed and he set his jaw just so. Doctor Wilde was a puzzle and he was trying to work her out. Kit smiled down into her cup. How very, very interesting. In all the years that she'd known the man, he'd not once demonstrated a personal interest in anyone, man or woman, other than Sherlock. And now this pretty young thing had him all a-quiver. She forced the smile away from her mouth; best not to go upsetting any applecarts just yet.

"It's … the a name of someone I used to know and who, coincidentally, looked very much like you do. I merely wondered if your names were … similar," Mycroft smiled diplomatically and looked as if he half-wished he'd never asked the question.

"Well, if you really must know, it was my maternal grandmother's middle name," Ellis assessed his expression, her own eyes narrowing as she took in his blue gaze. "It's not a common name at all; an old tradition for the women in my family was to always have a middle name that was Celtic and began with a 'B'," she said. "Mine's Brite," she added, lifting her chin a little, as if preparing for mockery. "But you're far too young to have known my grandmother unless you met her when you were a child," Ellis assessed him thoughtfully. He couldn't be more than early forties. "Did you?"

 _I think perhaps not your grandmother_ … Mycroft sat back in his chair and looked into a pair of unblinking, pale blue eyes. "Probably not," he smiled his half-smile again. "Though you do look exactly like someone I once knew; the resemblance is quite uncanny." Putting his tea down, he stood, offering Ellis his hand. "I'm Mycroft Holmes and he," he paused, pointing up at the military portrait that had so entranced her earlier, "Is a Holmes of an earlier generation."

Twisting around on the sofa to review the painting, Ellis gazed appreciatively before returning her eyes to Mycroft's face. "You could be identical twins," she said. "It's my job to notice details in portraits and I tell you now that you could be that man in the painting," she smiled, taking some more of her tea. "But since that's clearly impossible, perhaps you'd care to tell me more about some of the wonderful things in this room?" Ellis waved her cup. "That mirror, for instance?"

Smiling back and launching into a detailed account of Venetian antiquities in general and the mirror in particular, Mycroft sounded unusually animated.

Kit no longer bothered to hid the curve of her mouth. For whatever reason, he seemed to have found a friend. It would be good for Mycroft to have someone else to talk too in the future when … _after_ …. Putting her empty cup back into the saucer, Kitta decided that at this late stage, she would be forgiven a little matchmaking.


	8. in which there is movement on several fronts.

 

Inside the front door of her secluded up-market flat, Anthea kicked off her elegant court shoes, wriggling nylon-clad ankles in relief as she stripped off her long black coat, dropping her Hermès scarf and black leather gloves onto the hall table. She'd already collected her personal mail from the concierge's desk on the way up and the small pile of letters and promotional material lay on the gleaming mahogany hall-table. However, she had little interest in anything right now apart from some indulgent creature comforts; it had been a fairly hellish day; she was tired, her feet hurt and she deserved a very large gin-and-tonic. Walking slowly into the lounge, she crossed over to the drinks cabinet, opening the glass doors and pulling out a crystal tumbler, an unopened bottle of Tanqueray and some Schweppes tonic. In the kitchen, she clinked several large chunks of ice into the glass, sloshed in a liberal helping of the botanically-scented spirit, topping it up with the tonic. Swirling the whole thing around several times, she mentally counted to ten before taking a long, slow sip. As the delicate taste of alcohol and fizzy mixer hit her tastebuds, she allowed a slow sigh to leave her chest, her entire body relaxing back against the kitchen cabinets. Mycroft Holmes was almost impossible to work for and if she wasn't already planning his death, she'd very likely want to kill him. He was obsessive, unrelenting, commanding and had no understanding of obstacles except to see them as things for _other people_ to remove. In their current arrangement, 'other people' usually meant her.

Now that she'd been in her role long enough to be considered more than an absolute beginner, not only was the volume of her work ramping up, but the complex nature of the tasks appearing daily in her in-tray were incrementally more difficult and convoluted, as was the level of responsibility she'd needed to assume in order to deal successfully with the many and varied problems. North Korean defector wanting to come and live in the UK? _No problem_. Minor dictatorship supportive of the West but running out of cash? _Piece of cake_. Head of a large, internal government department found sharing sensitive material on his Facebook page? _Walk in the park_. Senior Minister in compromising photographs with a goat and a voluptuous Latvian Private Secretary? _A doddle_. Even in the short time she'd been in the job, she'd had to move her role from that of a relatively clever and competent assistant, to being a semi-omniscient department head without the job-title or the perks. Of course, her salary had seen three significant increases in as many weeks, enabling her to move into this little gem of a flat in Canary Wharf, but she was usually so bloody busy these days that she rarely had any time to enjoy being at home. Success, it seemed, was a double-edged sword.

As the alcohol percolated though her system, Anthea felt a little of her tension fade away. She really should eat and yet the thought of cooking anything or, indeed, of eating anything as solid as a proper meal, made her feel less than enthusiastic. Opening the cheese-drawer of the large refrigerator, she pulled out a chunk of Stilton. Fishing around for a small plate, she plucked a packet of crispy wafer-biscuits from the pantry cupboard and decided that would do. She might even have another gin to go with it before collapsing into bed and sleeping like the dead until she had to drag herself back into the Whitehall office at the crack of dawn.

Sliding onto her new and rather luxurious linen-covered sofa, she flicked on the television, but all that she saw was global financial disaster, rising unemployment and companies going bust. The political ramifications of this Global Financial Crisis were many and labyrinthine; weaknesses were becoming visible around the world as nations pursued their own fiscal and security agenda, apparently expecting the strong to compensate and cover the gaps. Having one of the strongest of sovereign state securities in the world, Britain was considered on par with the United States for risk, yet in many ways, more secure in terms of overall response and general preparedness. This was due in a great part to the foresight of Mycroft Holmes. Yet there was still insufficient government funding; always too few appropriately-competent and experienced individuals to run things even if the money had been available and just not enough time to do half of the things that needed doing. Thus, Anthea's days were growing longer and more difficult. Flicking the TV's off-switch, she swirled the remains of liquid in her tumbler and considered pouring herself a second. It would be an unusual indulgence, but she so rarely had the time to relax these days that she felt she'd earned it. Besides, she wanted to look at her little secret, and alcohol usually helped with that.

Placing a refilled glass on the side table by the couch, she walked into her bedroom ensuite and, leaning down, opened the vanity door closest to the wall. Reaching inside until she could touch high up under the stone vanity top, she pushed a small panel aside until she could feel the wall where her probing fingertips located a small catch. There was a secret panel she'd cut into the actual plasterboard itself. Releasing the catch, she pushed inwards until a recess about the size of a strongbox was revealed. Stretching her arm a little more, she found the thick envelope she kept in there, pulling it free from its unseen hidey-hole and bringing it into the light.

It was an old, yellowing A4 envelope, thickly-packed and covered in red post office stamps with a hand-written address across the front. The writing was Russian. As were the stamps and the envelope itself. Settling herself more comfortably back on the sofa, Anthea took a generous swig of her freshened drink before opening the envelope and tipping the contents carefully out onto the cushion beside her. Official documents, handwritten letters and several old photographs slid easily onto the broad seat. Picking up one of the faded colour photographs, she looked once again, as she had done countless times before, at the faces of a young, dark-haired woman with a small dark-haired child in her arms. The infant, a little girl, her long hair tied neatly back into plaits, could not have been more than four years old and wore the sunny, unsuspecting smile of innocence. The woman was smiling too, but it was a far less exuberant expression, her face tired and faintly sad and ill.

" _Mama_ ," Anthea whispered, touching the woman's fading features with a gentle fingertip. It had been the last photo that had ever been taken of the two of them together. It was shortly after it had been taken in fact, that Andrea had been brought to Britain and shortly after _that_ , had entered the national child fostering system. Of course, she'd been far too young to understand her position at the time. All that she'd know was that she was no longer with the only family she had and was in a strange and different place; a warmer place but cold with rain and strange food. The letters and official documents which had been sent to her shortly before her eighteenth birthday had made the situation much clearer and the reason behind her discovery of an unknown linguistic talent. She had taught herself Russian in less than a month, though – for obvious reasons – she never told anyone of this. One she had been able to understand the envelope and its contents, the information had been a revelation to her. Even now, after having absorbed the details so very many times, Andrea still found them horribly emotive, almost too painful to contemplate.

Turning the picture of the mother and child in her hand, in faint pencil she saw the names that she'd first seen nearly seven years earlier. _Irina and Andrea Bortzov_. It was a picture of Andrea and her mother, taken only weeks before Irina had succumbed to a short but ultimately lethal illness, leaving her only child to the tender mercies of her grandfather, Colonel Karim Bortzov.

Andrea swirled her drink; she couldn't really remember her grandfather except as a stern tall man; her mother had always tried to stay away from him, telling the young Andrea stories about living in London and about her father, who had been an Englishman. She picked up a second photograph, this one of a youngish man in a plain suit, sitting on a park bench eating a sandwich, smiling up at whoever was taking the photograph. " _Deda_ ," Andrea smiled faintly.

Following her mother's untimely death, somehow the child Andrea had been returned to Britain and apparently 'lost' in the welfare system through which she had ended up with the Worthington family. It wasn't until shortly before her eighteenth birthday when she received an anonymous packet of detailed information about her true parentage, telling her far more about her father than her mother ever had. The information detailed not only who she was and provided a great deal more background about her parentage, but also clarified, in heart-breaking detail, how her father had been hounded and persecuted by the establishment over his love of a Russian woman and how he had eventually been driven to take his own life. This was the catalyst that set her feet on the pathway leading to only one thing; the death of Mycroft Holmes. Her father had been a wonderful man it seemed, working in a senior post within the British Ministry of Defence and, like her mother, had been horribly and brutally treated. His name had been Martin Olam.

###

Sherlock was particularly frustrated on this cold January morning. He was often frustrated for all manner of reasons, but in this specific instance, his frustration stemmed from the limitations in his place of abode. It no longer met his basic and, to his thinking, absolute _minimum_ requirements he'd be prepared to accept in the exciting new future he'd already mapped out for himself. It was hardly his fault the landlord failed utterly to meet essential fire-safety regulations. Fortunately, even though the flat had been on the second floor, there was an adjacent garage with a nice flat roof within which the landlord kept his spanking new Audi. Apparently, the garage hadn't been precisely fire-proofed either, which had led to something of a falling out between landlord and tenant. Therefore, a new domicile was required and Sherlock had already decided what he didn't want.

He didn't want anywhere too modern and thus both too small and too sanitised. He needed room to spread his wings and he needed somewhere that the odd spot of acid wouldn't eat its way through paper-thin cement floors. He didn't want a modern, open-plan lifestyle, since it had proven advisable at times to close the doors of his laboratory until a certain volume of ventilation had taken place, thus closable doors were indicated. He didn't want to live too far out from the heart of the city; the idea of suburban bliss appealing not in the slightest. He couldn't afford to be too far from the central morgues and Scotland Yard; if most of his cases were going to involve him with either or both, then time spent commuting was time wasted. Nor did he want any massive condominium with an asinine body corporate and endless, irksome neighbours; there was a great deal to commend isolated splendour.

Sherlock might find the inevitable hassle of locating new digs to be a burdensome trial, but there was another issue that raised its miserable head higher than all his other problems.

Money.

Or rather, the lack of money. Of course, Mycroft had buckets of the stuff that he'd be entirely pleased to dispense, and had even set up a more-than-generous trust fund for Sherlock as a child, but there was something about this situation that made the young Holmes utterly determined not to touch a penny of Mycroft's money. Let it sit in some digital citadel somewhere, accumulating itself until required for something _really_ important. For the time being, however, he was determined not to do anything he couldn't pay for himself from the sweat of his own brow, or the closest approximation thereof.

This left the issue of locating a decent-sized, solidly-built, mid-city flat as something of a problem; not because they didn't exist – anything could be made to exist if one was prepared to throw sufficient cash at it – but because fate decreed that such a thing wouldn't be easy to find. However, fate had failed to reckon with the skills of one Sherlock Holmes, Master of Deduction and the world's first and only Consulting Detective. If there was such a place for rent, he would find it within the week.

In the meantime, he'd have to return to Mycroft's house and take up temporary residence in his old rooms until such a discovery had been made, though first, some research was called for. Collecting the small suitcase of clothes that had escaped both flame and water, he hailed a taxi and directed it to towards the British Library.

###

Mycroft sat in his office and stared bleakly at the far wall, his mind wandering just a little. Not, in this instance, as a result of the annoying mental lapses that still plagued him, but rather from a distraction which had its genesis very much in the here and now.

And the distraction's name was Ellis Brite Wilde; Doctor of History, research historian, dweller of London and the beguilingly beautiful and apparent reincarnation of his old love, Beryan of Isca. How had this thing happened? How, after two millennia, had the two of them been reunited? Of course, while Mycroft remembered everything about their time together on the banks of the River Exe in the halcyon days before the onslaught of the Romans, it was clear that this woman, though physically Beryan reborn, knew nothing about any past relationship. Thus, the question that circled round and around his thoughts: what to do? What he really found himself wanting to do was to fly her down to the place where it had all begun for the two of them and see if she really was Beryan reborn or, as she clearly was, a unique physical throwback. However, it was equally clear that such an action would not do in the least. Doctor Wilde was a sane and sensible person who, even if he was able to persuade her to accompany him to the South-west, would not take kindly into being treated thusly. If he wanted to get to know her better, and, more importantly, to have her get to know _him_ better, then a more circumspect and sedate approach was demanded.

Yet why was he even thinking of these things? There could be no real feeling kindled between them, no matter how he might be drawn to such a desire, nor could he ever be truly honest with Ellis; hardly the best foundation for any relationship. Far better to end it all now before things went too far. Mycroft did not relish the idea of the scorn which would inevitably be the result should he attempt any real friendship with her. No; Ellis Wilde was a modern woman with a modern lifestyle and a fulfilling career; it was not he that should stand by her side but someone younger; of her own generation. Nor could he, in all honesty, pretend to be anything other than he was, and she deserved so much more than the lies and deception he would be forced to field at her questioning. Ellis was young and lovely and _human_ , whereas he was ancient, unlikeable and had abandoned any claim to humanity centuries before she had been born. There was nothing he could offer her in the long term that could realistically compete with that which she already possessed. Far better he desist and leave things as they stood now; a shared interest in history; a transient meeting of minds, but no more. It would be the logical thing to do. The sane and sensible thing to do.

 _Beryan_ ...

Feeling an unusual hollowness in his chest, Mycroft focused his thoughts squarely on the tasks in front of him; the multifarious meeting agendas; the written pleas for international security and sanctuary, the phone calls he needed to return in at least fifteen different time-zones. His was not a life where personal friendships could easily be accommodated, and especially not the manner of friendship he had once had with Beryan of Isca.

With a small resigned sigh, he tightened his jaw and picked up the nearest phone; he would keep himself too busy for wistful thoughts. He would. He'd done it before.

###

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade refrained from slamming his desk-phone down in its receiver, but only just. This gruesome double-double murder case was wearing his patience to its thinnest. No matter which way he looked, all he managed to see were exceptionally high brick walls, each one solid and impenetrable. There were no witnesses, no CCTV evidence, no clear leads as to who might have been involved. The forensic results on the DNA samples were a joke and for some reason the experts were not prepared to stick their collective necks out on any kind of useful hypothesis. Even Sherlock seemed to have vanished, though he vaguely recalled hearing the young Holmes' name in conjunction with a small residential fire in the New Cross Road area. Just as there was no really clear picture of the killer or killers, neither was there any indication of pattern or plan in the slaughter or, if there really were two killers rather than one, any signs that the two were killing simultaneously or together. The way it looked right now was that one victim was murdered and then a second some time later in the same place, yet even that was questionable since the final state of the victims rendered any such precise measurement as time-of-death as approximate at best. It was almost as if there was some kind of macabre competition going one between two people, each determined to outdo the other in violent, bloodthirsty death.

The only fact that swam endlessly round and around Greg's thoughts was that serial killers rarely stopped until they were caught, which meant the likelihood of further deaths was high. Other than briefing community coppers to keep their eyes wide open, especially around any deserted large buildings such as closed factories or warehouses and to report in on any suspicious activity in any of these places, there wasn't much else he could do. The idea of holding a media conference briefly crossed his mind, but what could he usefully say that wouldn't basically terrify people out of their skulls? Most normal London residents thought twice about walking around at night as it was, and banging on about a self-imposed curfew to avoid being slaughtered by some maniac who thought he was bloody Nosferatu, would only be helpful if they were actually closing in on a prime suspect.

 _No_ ; Lestrade chewed his lip. He needed a proper, sit-down pow-wow with Sherlock to see if there was any angle on this case that nobody else had considered. If anyone was able to come up with a new tangent, it would be the young Holmes. Extracting his mobile from an inner jacket pocket, Greg found the number he wanted and pressed _Call_.

"Lestrade."

 _Finally_. Though from his tone, Sherlock was in the middle of something.

"You busy?" Greg didn't want to have to repeat any of this.

"Moderately."

Which probably meant he was either ankle-deep in body-parts somewhere, or dangling off a building.

"I want to talk to you about these vampire murders," Greg wasted no time explaining why; it would be obvious. "I ... _we_ need your help."

"That much is obvious," Sherlock sounded impatient. "I need access to the saliva samples your forensic people say are from the killer."

Puffing out his cheeks in a sharp exhale, Lestrade nodded to himself. "OK," he said. "Anything else?"

"A proper lab with haematology-scribing equipment and the appropriate facilities to conduct DNA analysis," it was clear Sherlock had an idea he wanted to pursue. "And I want you to tell the Lewisham constabulary to get off my back; it was only a little house fire, almost completely covered by the landlord's insurance, and I simply don't have time to deal with their endless and incessant adminitrivia if I'm to sort this mess out for you."

"So it _was_ your place that went up," Greg grinned. "I knew it had to happen one day, you great berk," he laughed. "You okay? No damage done?"

"Only slightly to my bank account, though my residential history record is probably pretty damning if I ever want to use a commercial letting agency again," the older man could almost hear the shrug.

"So where are you going to be dossing down in the meantime?" Greg frowned. Sherlock better not try and put dibs on any settees in any front rooms, as that would not go down well with Kathy and the last thing he wanted was another row. However, neither did he want to know that Sherlock was sleeping rough and possibly falling back in with bad company. Getting him out of the drugs crowd had been difficult enough the first time. "You kipping in an hotel?"

"Don't worry, Inspector," there was a resigned sigh in the words. "I'll be staying at my brother's house in the Mall, though I have no lab and no real equipment to undertake my own experiments there, so you'll have to find me one. I need access to the proper resources and I work best alone and without oversight."

"Okaaay ..." Greg thought he could swing a lab for a few hours. "How long is your science stuff going to take?"

"As long as it takes, Inspector, really; science cannot be rushed, though I am probably keener than you to have this mystery solved as quickly as possible." Sherlock offered no explanation of why speed was of personal importance. "Thus the sooner you acquire the relevant sample and locate a lab for me, the sooner I shall be able to provide you with some resolution to your problems."

"Then give me your brother's address in case I need to have anything couriered over,' Greg was already running through the names of people who owed him a favour. Did any one of them have enough clout to wangle access to a lab on the sly? There was one possibility ... "How would you feel about working in a morgue?"

"I ... think I'd find it within myself to cope," Sherlock's voice resonated with barely concealed satisfaction. "Assuming it had all the necessary facilities."

"If you mean does it have lots of expensive gadgets and lab equipment and testing stuff, then yes, it does. It's in a large metropolitan teaching hospital and I know the Chief Pathologist; she helps us out from time to time. She's a nice woman."

"As long as I'm left alone, I have no objection to sharing a lab if I have to," Sherlock was dismissive. "How soon will I be able to access the place?"

"Let me go and speak to my contact in person and I'll be in touch. You go and organise your new digs and I'll give you a bell as soon as I can set something up."

"Today?

" _Maybe_ today," Greg sighed, though he was becoming used to the incessant impatience, but it wouldn't make the arrangements happen any faster. Besides, there was always the chance Doctor Hooper would say no, though he doubted it. Molly Hooper was indeed a good woman. "Get yourself sorted at your brother's and I'll give you a bell as soon as I can, yeah?"

"Very well, but speed is of the essence, inspector; do not make me wait too long!"

There was a sudden silence in Greg's right ear and he stared down at his desk, almost covered in paperwork. It was all critical, essential stuff.

It would keep, but getting Sherlock Holmes on the case would not. Sliding his phone back into his jacket pocket, Greg headed for the door. At this time of the day it would take him at least twenty minutes to reach St Bart's Hospital and the conversation he wanted to have was best done face to face.

###

Ellis Wilde sat in her tiny office in the basement of the London Museum, stared at the phone on the small desk and gently chewed her thumb. She wasn't entirely sure what to do and hoped the phone might ring to provide a reason for not doing anything at all, but the device remained determinedly silent. There was a pile of Victorian letters in front of her she was supposed to be authenticating, but really, her mind wasn't on what would usually have been a fascinating task.

No, over and over again, Ellis found her thoughts drifting back to a large Drawing room in a large Pall Mall house, filled with the most wondrous _objet_ , the property of an amazing man. A man who appeared to be as absorbed and engrossed in history as she was herself. In telling her the provenance and background to the major pieces in the room, he seemed to have come alive; there was real pleasure and a genuine joy in his face. He had only managed to finish telling her the story of the Venetian chandeliers, a somewhat salacious tale involving brandy-smugglers, a seventeenth-century Parisian mistress, several bribed members of the city's _La Forza_ and a small lapdog named Bebo, before she had realised the time – already past eleven. Ellis could have sat there and listened all night to the man's wonderfully resonant voice; he could have been on the stage with a voice like that. Even his name, _Mycroft Holmes_ , seemed to come from an era of steam engines and chimney sweeps and afternoon tea. It was the sort of name you'd have wonderfully engraved in fine black Indian ink and gilt on a stiff white visiting card. He had offered to have her driven home in his car, but she'd laughed and told him of course not; there were plenty of taxies plying their business up and down the Mall at this time of night and she'd be in her small Camberwell flat in in no time at all. _Thank you_ , she'd said, smiling, brushing his offer away with a capable smile. _I'm able to manage a cab home_.

He had seemed almost disappointed, but obviously, that couldn't be the case; they'd only just met though it had seemed that he had spoken with her as if they were old friends. And even though it was the first time she'd seen him in the flesh, as it were, Ellis was convinced now that Mycroft was the source of the anonymous donation of old British military uniforms to the museum. Everything about him screamed ownership of the collection; his background, his house with its own magnificent collections ... the man himself and his family line spoke of _centuries_ of military service to the British Crown. But if so, then _why_ would he feel it necessary to donate such things anonymously; and not only anonymously, but almost like a thief in the dead of night. Who would do such a thing? What need did he have to _hide_ such an activity? It was all a bit strange to think about, but there was probably a reason behind it all, if only she could find out. All she had to do was to get him to try on one of the donated jackets and she'd prove her case, she was certain of it.

But even more pressing was the problem of getting an invitation to return to the Pall Mall house; how on earth was she going to swing such a thing? Remembering how Mycroft had smiled when he'd told her the tale of the Parisian mistress and her lapdog, Ellis realised she was in the company of a born storyteller, probably from a family of such individuals. The way he'd spoken of the event, embellished with all manner of inconsequential detail, made it sound as though he'd been there himself which, of course, was impossible. Therefore he must have heard the story often enough as a child to feel entirely comfortable with relating such details so well to a complete stranger. How many more amazing stories were there to be told? If each piece in the house held as much history as the contents of that one room, had such a wonderful, intriguing background, she would be enraptured forever, for that was how long it would take to go through it all.

It was almost with a physical discomfort that Ellis wrenched her attention back to the letters before her on the desk. Compared to the marvels of last night, they suddenly seemed pale and bland by comparison. How could she go back to the house in all good conscience?

And to be truthful, it wasn't only the house that called to her, was it? Could she even try and deny that part of the reason she found herself so determined to return to the Holmes residence was ... yes ... was because of the man himself? There was no sign of a wife or partner and Kit had said that the family comprised now of only Mr Holmes and his younger brother. This argued the absence of parents, other siblings and romantic companions, though why this might be again, Ellis had no clue. Mycroft was far more attractive to look at than his ancestor in the painting; the expression on his face had been inexplicably _warm_ at times, was the only way she could describe it. She knew she was being pushy even to imagine she'd be welcomed back there, but something inside her wanted to go. But how?

Contemplating this difficult conundrum, Ellis hardly heard her desk-phone ring, though she managed to collect her thoughts sufficiently to answer it before it pealed a third time.

"Is this the nice young lady who came over with scones for me yesterday?" Kit's voice was clear and unwavering. "I'd like to ask her for some help."

Ellis laughed; she moved on from 'nice' and 'young' at least ten years before and was now pretty much entrenched in the 'unmarried professional' demographic. But Kit Penderic was sweet. "I'm afraid that person vanished a long time ago," she smiled. "However _I'd_ love to help if I can; what do you need?"

"Well, my dear," Kit's voice lowered to a place of confidentiality. "T'is my birthday, and though I don't usually make any fuss about it, I thought I'd like to have you over for some afternoon tea if you'd like, seeing as how you were so taken with the place yesterday," she paused. "Would you be free for a little while this afternoon?"

Ellis swallowed. Only minutes ago, she'd been wondering how she might possibly wangle another visit to the Pall Mall house and here she was, being offered an open invitation. It felt almost too good to be true.

"I'd love to come over and have tea with you this afternoon, Kit," she paused. "On one condition."

"And what would that be, my dear?" Ellis could swear Kit was beginning to sound like Mary Poppins.

"That if I bring a bottle of champagne, you will have a little taste?"

"I love's champagne," there was a real smile in Kit's voice.

"So do I," Ellis smiled back. "What time shall I be there?"

"Oh ... round four-ish would be about right, I think," Kitta sounded thoughtful.

"See you at four, then," Ellis laughed again as she returned the handset to the receiver. It might be Kit's birthday, but she was the one getting the real gift.

###

Picking up the phone again, Kitta called a number she'd know in her sleep.

"Holmes," Mycroft sounded distant.

"Mycroft, my dear; I wonder if you could come home and see me a little early today, around half-past four or so?" Kit was innocence enshrined.

"Of _course_ ," Mycroft was instantly concerned. "Are you unwell" Do you need medical assistance? Shall I come now?"

"Oh no; nothin' urgent, but I need some papers signed and witnessed and then I might have an early night before you get home. So if you really wouldn't mind?"

"Not in the least," Mycroft's voice was much less tense. "I'll be there at four-thirty."

After ending the call, Kit sat in her favourite kitchen chair and plotted.


	9. in which plans are executed.

 

He liked the smell, harshly antiseptic though it was; the freshly cleaned floors producing a faint but rising layer of pungently artificial pine. Even though it left him with a slight burning sensation in his nose, he liked it; it made him think of safety, of places where people took care to ensure, to the best of their rather limited abilities, that bad things got no worse. Inhaling rather more deeply than necessary, Sherlock followed closely on the inspector's heels; there was a meeting to take place and the young Holmes had been warned to be on his best behaviour or the closest approximation thereof. Senior Forensic Pathologists of larger teaching hospitals were not usually known for their tolerance towards _parvenus_ of any description, whether they were the world's first Consulting Detective or not. According to the silver-haired detective, Doctor Molly Hooper, Senior Pathologist and Friend to the Met, was not, it seemed, of the usual ilk. This was assuming of course, that the good Detective Inspector had not received any severe blows to the head in recent days and was actually correct in his assessment of the woman.

"Molly, I'd like you to meet Sherlock Holmes, the private detective I told you about," he turned slowly around towards Sherlock, his eyes narrowing meaningfully, the two men sharing an important though sub-vocal message. "Sherlock, I'd like to introduce you to Doctor Molly Hooper, Deputy Head of Forensic Pathology here at the Royal Hospital of St Bartholomew's; a really _nice_ person and not anyone you can muck about simply because you're in one of your funny moods, do I make myself clear?"

As a pair of light-brown eyes scanned him from head to toe, Sherlock barely managed to restrain a smile of satisfaction. The woman had made up her own mind already; body stance leaning toward him at an angle of nine degrees from vertical in an open posture; head titled fractionally backwards; both feet moved to point directly his way; hands out of pockets, palms and wrists already on display; eyebrows slightly up and ... the incontrovertible decider ... a light flaring of the nostrils and widening of the eyes.

 _Molly Hooper fancied him_.

"Of _course_ , Inspector," Sherlock smiled delightedly, putting on what Kit called his visiting vicar's face. "I would never dream of discommoding such a busy professional and can only offer Doctor Hooper my sincere and heartfelt appreciation that she feels able to open her doors in such a manner to a complete stranger." Moving subtly closer to the short woman until he almost hovered above her, Sherlock dropped his voice to a more intimate level. "You must know I'll do whatever it takes to keep you happy," he murmured, his eyes holding hers as a light blush crept up over her fine, pale skin.

"That's wonderful," Doctor Hooper breathed, before collecting herself. "I mean ... that's as it _should_ be and as long as you keep your activities here unobtrusive and brief, I'm okay with that," Molly stepped away, walking over to a much-laden desk where she stood, fiddling with some sheets of paper. "You are assisting the police with these Vampire murders?"

" _Consulting_ with the police," Sherlock corrected her, gently. "They come to me when they don't have a clue about moving a case forward, which, to be honest, is practically once a week."

"Hey you," Greg tapped Sherlock none too softly on the shoulder. "Less of your lip, my lad, or you can go consult in Dumfries; I just know they'd _love_ to have you up there," Lestrade grinned nastily, though there was no real malice in it. At least the initial meeting between Sherlock and Molly seemed to have got off to a polite start, which was more than might have happened. And hopefully Sherlock wouldn't need to be here too often to inconvenience anyone. "If he gives you any strife," he advised the pathologist, "just tell him to bugger off and if he won't go, call me, okay?" Greg made for the door. "And don't let him start ordering you around," he added, waving a finger in Sherlock's direction. "He needs to learn where the acceptable boundaries are," pointing the raised finger at a white box on one of the steel tables, he paused, turning to face the younger man. "What you said you wanted," Lestrade nodded at Sherlock with a very specific light in his eye, lowering his voice to barely more than a murmur. "I will not have you terrorising the woman, Sherlock," he muttered. "So behave yourself and don't fuck this up because Molly's the only sciency person I know who's actually nice enough to do me this kind of favour, alright?"

"Scout's honour, Inspector," Sherlock's wide-eyed innocence didn't work for a second and Greg sucked in a deep breath. Oh well; _at least he'd tried_. If Sherlock stuffed this chance up, it was all on his own head.

As soon as Lestrade's footsteps had faded from hearing, Sherlock turned on his heel, rubbing his hands. "Right then," he clapped his palms together. "I need slides, some buffered Wright Giemsa stain, access to your Beckman-Coulter analysis equipment and … a large cup of coffee," turning with a bright smile across his face, he held the pose as the woman he'd met less than five minutes before stood at her desk.

"You're using coffee as a haematological _stain?_ " the pathologist screwed up her face uncertainly.

"Yes; I always use coffee; fresh ground, for preference," Sherlock waited for a second before rolling his eyes dramatically. "No, of _course_ I don't use coffee for the cell-analysis; that's for me, but the rest is for what's in there," he said, pointing at the small white polystyrene box the Inspector had arranged to have waiting for him. "But I've not had a decent cup of coffee since my flat burned down two days ago and I'm desperate, Molly," Sherlock's expression turned tragic. "I am _dying_ for a cup."

"Your _flat_ burned down? _God_ ," the young woman sounded horrified. "All you had to do was say," Doctor Hooper felt a traitorous resurgence of her earlier flush. "Just this once, hey?" she smiled, heading for the door.

As soon as she had exited the room, Sherlock stilled his features, striding directly for the white box and the precious evidence it contained.

###

Clutching the chilled bottle of Bolly beneath her arm, while holding a small, brightly-wrapped package and her bag, Ellis Wilde wrestled everything around until she had a free hand and managed to press the elegant brass doorbell. It was a little before four, but she doubted Kit would mind, especially since it had been fairly clear in her voice on the phone that she really wanted her new friend to come and visit. Ellis smiled to herself; _friend_. She didn't think she'd ever become one so quickly before. But Kit was lovely and there was something about the old woman's down-to-earthiness that reminded Ellis of her own Nan, now long gone. Even without the opportunity to perhaps have another peek at Mycroft Holmes' house, Ellis would have been happy to visit.

"Oh, my _dear_ ," Kit's smile was wide and pleased. "I'm _so_ delighted you were able to come and see me at such short notice," she said, ushering the younger woman inside and out of the cold January wind. "Did you have to leave anything important in order to be here?"

"There's nothing more important than being able to celebrate a birthday, Kit," Ellis found she was hugging the older woman without realising. "Especially as it means being able to drink some bubbly during the day," she grinned, hoisting the cold bottle in the air. "Show me the glasses!"

There was even a small cake on the table, though not really a cake, Ellis saw, but more like an exquisite French gateaux, with multiple thin layers of sponge like fat pancakes interspersed with drifts of fresh cream, trailed ribbons of dark chocolate and the whole thing scattered liberally with almond shavings and a fine dusting of gold. It was an incredible work of culinary art. "Who on earth made this?" Ellis was mesmerised. "Give me the name of the _boulangerie_ where you got this; I need to add them to my important list of shops to visit," the historian's eyes were wide with artistic admiration.

Kit smiled shyly. "T'weren't nothing really," she said. "Just one of the things I got to practice a lot on during the days when there wasn't nothing much to do around the house," she shrugged a little. "Just fun, really."

"You _made_ this?" Ellis felt her eyes widen. "It's amazing," she stopped, suddenly, remembering. I have this for you," she said, handing over a small box, gaily wrapped in cheerful blues and golds. "And there's something missing from there," she added, pointing to the cake as she opened her bag and pulled out another, even more minute box. Inside was a single tiny gold candle and holder, exactly the right size for the cake. Even the colour matched. "Can't have a birthday cake without one of these now, can we?" At Kit's nod, Ellis pressed the candle holder carefully into the centre of the edible artwork which was far too fabulous to eat.

Looking pleased at what was clearly a birthday present, Kitta touched it with her fingertips, then paused as if unsure what to do next.

"Open it," Ellis grinned. "It's only a little thing, but I thought you might like it; found it in a flea-market in Peckham."

Carefully unpicking the neatly applied sticky-tape on one edge of the little package, Kit withdrew a small jeweller's box. "You shouldn't have gone to no trouble like this," she murmured, lifting the lid and smiling in delight. "How _lovely_ ," she breathed. "And just what I needs these days with the cold winds." The most delicate mother-of-pearl scarf clasp lay in her hand. No more than two inches across and lacking almost any weight, the fine pearlescent ornament would hold any lightweight fabric safe and secure. "T'is _beautiful_ , my lover, thank you. I shall wear 'im tomorrow when I goes out," she smiled again, a bright flash of pleasure. "If you'd care to open the champagne, my dear, I'll get us a couple of glasses," Kit walked slowly towards one of the kitchen cupboards, opening the door to reveal a gleaming display of fine crystalware. Selecting a couple of tall flutes, Kit had barely placed them on the table before the champagne popper quietly and she watched as the pale foam rose in both glasses. Taking the one she was handed, Kitta smiled again, raising her glass in a toast. "To birthdays," she said, sipping the chilled fizzy and taking her seat at the table.

After gently clinking glasses, Ellis took one of the other seats, watching at Kit laid out two small tea plates, two silver cake-forks, two soft linen napkins and a large cake-slice. "Shall I do the honours?" the historian asked, noting the splendid George Third silverware while scrabbling in her bag for her emergency box of matches. Lighting the single candle, both women watched for several seconds as the small flame flickered then settle down to burn with a tiny brilliance. There was a moment of soft and unspoken camaraderie as all those who have ever watched such a candle burn will know. "Make a wish," Ellis pushed the cake closer to Kit's seat, watching as the old lady closed her eyes, took a breath and puffed the candle out.

"Did you make a wish?" Ellis took the heavy cake knife as it was handed to her, carefully making three slow vertical cuts and depositing the resulting slices onto the plates. "I hope it was a good one."

"Oh yes, my dear," Kit sampled a morsel of the cake and took another small mouthful of the champagne. "It was a proper wish; the best of wishes," she smiled cheerfully, digging the small fork deep into the cake. "My, this bubbly isn't half nice; I really do likes it."

"It's one of my secret vices," Ellis murmured, as she tasted the sumptuous gateaux, closing her eyes momentarily to better explore the tastes and textures. The bitterness of the dark chocolate offset by the sweetness of the cake; honey, she noticed, not sugar; the frothy lightness of the fresh cream contrasting with the silky mocha filling. _Divine_. She needed more fizzy. Refilling her glass and taking another forkful of the delicious confectionary, Ellis missed the sly turn of Kit's smile as the older woman settled back in her chair.

"I didn't think anyone had vices anymore," Kitta looked into mid-distance and mused. "Seems to be all the fashion these days to put everything on that Facebook place, or plaster photographs on the interweb-thingy," she snorted. "Din't think people bothered keeping their private vices private no more."

"Why do you think I became an Historian?" Ellis sipped some more champagne, raised her eyebrows and laughed, such drinking on a relatively empty stomach pushing alcohol rapidly into her bloodstream and thence to her brain. She wasn't anywhere near swimmy yet, but felt deliciously relaxed and warm. "I'm pathetically antiquated at heart," she admitted, lifting the beautiful late eighteenth-century crystal flute of Val-Saint-Lambert and admiring its clarity in the glinting lights of the kitchen. "I still like doing things in old-fashioned ways if I can," Ellis grinned, polishing off the last of the golden liquid in her glass. "It makes me feel as if I'm preserving things that are special," she shrugged. "It might not be much, but it's my personal contribution."

"Old fashioned things such as what?" Kit smiled carefully as she poured them both a fresh glass of the fine wine; she rather liked the idea of deliberate rebellion against modernity. Perhaps, after all these years, Mycroft felt the same.

"Like writing letters to my friends instead of sending emails or texts," Ellis stretched back in her seat, gazing up at the ceiling. "Like using a fountain pen instead of a keyboard for everything; taking things at a pace you can enjoy, not just to get things finished and over with; enjoying the quality of something rather than just counting coup," she shrugged briefly. "I prefer to know that I'm actually living my life, not trying to set speed records for every part of it," she said.

"So you'd probably like books then, would you?" Kit's eyebrows lifted high as her smile grew less cautious and rather more calculating.

"Love them to death," Ellis swept up her refilled glass, raising it aloft in an extravagant toast. "To books and publishers and libraries everywhere!" she took a goodly mouthful of the fizzy and beamed; champagne was wonderful and she wondered why she didn't drink it every afternoon. She felt marvellous.

"You should ask Mycroft to show you his collection," still holding her almost untouched second glass of bubbly, Kitta gauged how much of the wine was left in the dark bottle. Not much at all. _Excellent_. "He has a few very nice books, he does," she added, her eyes flicking up to the wall-clock and back. It was well after four now; heading towards the bottom of the hour, in fact.

"I bet he does," Ellis found herself leaning forward, her chin resting heavily in the cupped palm of her left hand. "And what else does the mysterious Mycroft Holmes have?" she brought her voice down to a dramatic whisper as she leaned closer, meeting Kitta's wide-eyed gaze. "Pots of money to be able to run a place like this, obviously," Ellis looked thoughtful. "Though money itself isn't interesting, but what gets done with it, really," she added to herself as she polished off the last few drops of wine in her glass. "I bet he's got some fabulous collections of things," she rested back against the chair feeling tranquil and unstressed. "Fabulous family history," Ellis lifted a hand in the air, counting her thoughts on suddenly expressive fingers. "Fabulous taste in décor, fabulous art, fabulous everything, in fact," she paused, sighing. "The fabulous Mycroft Holmes."

As if on cue, the front door opened and closed quickly, footsteps heading towards the kitchen. " _Kit?_ " Mycroft stood in the open doorway, clearly surprised at the scene before him; the empty champagne bottle, the candled-cake and the waft of smoke hanging in the air.

"Perfect timing, Mycroft," the old woman smiled. "Doctor Ellis here just dropped in a while back with a bottle of bubbly and we've been here talking about all manner o'things," Kit saluted him with her glass and sipped. "I was just tellin' her about your books."

Pulling leather gloves from his long fingers, Mycroft's fleeting smile appeared and vanished. "Happy birthday, Doctor Wilde," he murmured.

"Oh, it's not my birthday," Ellis sat up more or less straight, her head spinning just a little. "Kit invited me to celebrate _her_ birthday, and here we are," she smiled brightly at the old lady.

"Your birthday's not until August," Mycroft paused the glove-removal, frowning lightly as he turned to face Kit.

"No, t'is in January," Kit's eyes were wide and she nodded emphatically before sipping some more fizzy, her expression entirely innocent.

"The _seventh_ of August, to be precise," Mycroft laid his heavy overcoat and gloves across the back of a kitchen chair. "At least it has been since the mid-1980s."

"You'm confused, my dear," Kit smiled cheerfully, the alcohol bringing out the Cornish. "My birthday's allus been in January, and allus been today."

"And what exactly _is_ the date today, Kit?" Mycroft rested both hands on the back of a chair, his dark blue eyes connected to an even darker pair. His old housekeeper was playing at something and the ghost of a smile curved his mouth.

"Oh, don't _fuss_ , Mycroft," Kitta made a face, suspiciously avoiding his gaze. "T'is my birthday _today_ and I asked the nice doctor here to come and share it with me, since I'm allus left alone in this great big place, with nobody to remember my birthdays no more and no friends to call my own, these days."

"Oh, that's _terrible_ ," Ellis swung around in her chair to glare pointedly at the tall man not three feet away. "To be left all alone and have no family to share your birthday with," she scowled in Mycroft's direction. "I'm glad _I_ could be here for you, at least."

Mildly offended at being painted the villain, Mycroft felt his eyebrows reach for his hairline. Not only was Kit making up the entire tale, clearly for the doctor's benefit, but she was also, for some inexplicable reason, casting him in a very uncharitable light.

"So you best be right nice to Doctor Ellis here," Kitta nodded self-righteously. "Don't you go upsettin' her now; best show her round your library until she's feeling less upset."

Ellis looked sideways at Kit. "I'm not upset," she said in an uncertain tone. "Though I thought you were."

"Now don't you try pretending you're not all upset because of the wicked way I'm treated," Kit dropped her hands in her lap. "I can see how badly you'm feeling; it's a nurse thing," she stated, tapping the side of her nose as if it were a shared form of medical prescience. Looking pained, Mycroft folded his arms.

There was the sound of the front door opening and closing again, and once more, footsteps approached down the hallway towards the kitchen.

"My my. Quite the party," Sherlock stood in the doorway glancing between faces as he dropped a small suitcase on the floor and unwrapped a dark burgundy scarf from around his neck. "What's the occasion?"

"Apparently, Kit is celebrating her birthday," Mycroft sounded faintly amused.

"Then it's a rather chilly August," Sherlock bent forward to brush his lips against Kit's cheek. "Is it time for us to start using plastic cutlery and feeding you gruel, you silly thing?"

"I'll have less of your cheek, young man," Kit stood to her full height, almost reaching his shoulder. "Doctor Wilde here have been very kind to me, an' I think the least that might be done is to let her see the library," she narrowed her eyes at Mycroft and waited.

"My apologies," he unfolded his arms, looking swiftly between Ellis and Sherlock's suitcase. "Doctor Wilde, my younger brother Sherlock, who appears to have come to stay until he can find himself a new residence," he paused momentarily, about to introduce Kitta's guest, when Sherlock raised his hand to stay him.

"An academic or a good researcher of some kind," he mused. "Clearly something indoors involving old papers and fabrics, likely in a museum or archive. London-based, though you caught a taxi to get here rather than driving or walking, and you live south of the river," he paused, tilting his head a little. "Good Samaritan with something of a social conscience, though you have never married and are yourself something of a recluse," he added. "You intellectualise romance and romanticise the intellect, though this is a private weakness, which you choose not to ..."

"Enough, Sherlock. Burning down one house is quite sufficient for this week," Mycroft interrupted quietly, turning back to Ellis with a vague look of apology. "I'm afraid my brother gets a little carried away at times and needs a reminder that not everyone is as enamoured with his deductive prowess as is he."

"Really?" Ellis's eyes had grown wide at Sherlock's revelation. "I thought it was amazing, actually."

"You knew about my flat?" Sherlock faced the older man.

Mycroft's pained expression returned, and though he raised an eyebrow, he said nothing. Of course he'd known.

"They'm both as smart as whips," Kit toddled over to put the kettle on for tea. "T'is a terrible thing for a body to have to live with all these years," she murmured, still playing the tragedy card.

" _Really?_ " Sherlock turned back to the visitor, narrowing his eyes. He looked attentive. "You think it's amazing?"

"Sherlock, please don't harangue Kit's guest; apparently she's here for a birthday party, not an exposé," Mycroft moved to the door. "The Library's this way, Doctor Wilde, if you would care to see it."

"Truly," Ellis nodded at Sherlock as she rose to her feet, her eyes still wondering. "How on earth did you know about me living south of the river? And did you really burn your house down?"

"Don't get him started on his mud," Kit muttered as she pulled out cup and saucers. "We'll all be here till next Christmas, else."

"The dried mud on the heel of your left boot is partly grey clay; nothing like it on this side of town," Sherlock looked pleased.

"Hardly a deduction of note, Sherlock," Mycroft paused in the kitchen entrance. "As might be said of your arrival with baggage. One assumes you'll be with us for a while?"

"I think such deductions are all entirely marvellous," Ellis grinned, pleased. "Though I'm too nervous to ask you anything else about me in case you say things I don't want to hear," she stood, feeling more than a little warm and fanned her face with a hand. "It's hot in here."

"I believe that might be the champagne," Mycroft leaned back in the doorway, folding his arms again.

"Mud is genuinely incredible stuff," Sherlock allowed a little enthusiasm to colour his words. "I've identified more than three hundred and forty-three different types in the Greater London area alone."

"Told you," Kitta brought milk from the fridge. " _Mud_ ," she shook her head. "Want to stay in your old room, I suppose?"

"Books?" Mycroft was still leaning against the door frame.

"Oh, yes _please_ ," Ellis was torn between taking off her boots for a closer look at the heels and going to see Mycroft's book collections which would probably be as wondrous as all the other things she'd seen in the house so far. And why was it suddenly so _warm_ in here?

"The Library is kept at a constant twenty-one degrees Celsius," the elder Holmes commented. "You might find it a more agreeable temperature."

"You can make your own bed this time," Kit addressed the younger Holmes as she poured two teas. "I'll get you some fresh sheets after we've had this nice cuppa and you can tell me all about your little accident."

"Not a little _accident_ at all," Sherlock threw himself into the chair recently vacated by Ellis. "A slightly misjudged flammability in an area of unequivocally deficient ventilation, the responsibility of which lies squarely at the landlord's door."

A cooler room sounded wonderful and Ellis headed towards the passageway beyond the kitchen. "Lovely to meet you," she smiled at Sherlock over her shoulder.

"Toodles," Sherlock divested himself of his heavy coat and retook his seat at the table as Kit pushed a cup towards him. He waited until she sat when he leaned forward and fixed her with his pale blue eyes. " _Birthday?_ "

###

At her desk, Anthea scowled blackly when she found the small piece of folded paper wedged right at the bottom of her jacket pocket, the translation of the old English Mycroft had wanted her to arrange; she'd have to apologise to him first thing. Unfolding the heavy bond paper, she read the words once again. They still made no sense.

 _Hit sy forgitelnes angsumnes ond æfwerdelsa bréostcofa hwonne drút hwy béddagas ays eald ared,_ _the original text read and beneath it, the retired professor had written_ 'Forgetfulness through heartbreak is yours when one whom you love is soon to die.'

Anthea had no clue what this might mean, a cypher of some kind, possibly. Whatever it was, she'd make damn sure Mycroft Holmes had it waiting on his desk when he arrived at his Whitehall office the next morning. She was beginning to formulate a simple and pragmatic assassination plan and the last thing she wanted was to lose her job through incompetence before she was able to put it into action.

###

"Forgive me," Mycroft paused with his hands resting on the handles of the tall double-doors and looked Ellis over his shoulder. "I dislike melodrama in others, but find I'm unable to resist it when it comes to my library," he smiled, uncommonly self-conscious. For some reason he very much wanted the historian to be pleased by the collection that had taken him centuries to assemble and curate. Taking an unnecessary but symbolic deep breath, he turned both handles simultaneously, throwing the doors wide before him. As if choreographed and rehearsed, they swung open with a slow, elegant ease which belied the nervous agitation Mycroft felt rising in his chest. A novel sensation in itself, he took a second to reflect on the experience. _How very curious_ ; he could not recall the last time anything had given him this feeling. About to welcome the good doctor into this, his sanctum of sanctums, he realised that she remained frozen at the threshold, not yet setting foot inside the great room of books. He turned, puzzlement beginning to shape his features, until he saw his guest's face, or what could be seen of her face not completely covered by both her hands which Ellis held pressed tightly across her mouth. Her eyes were wide and staring and the rest of her body quite rigid; she had seemingly ceased breathing.

"Are you quite well, Doctor Wilde?" Mycroft was immediately concerned. Had the champagne perhaps been too much? Not everyone was able to absorb alcohol as easily as they imagined. "Would you care to sit down?"

Allowing her hands to fall slowly, Ellis sucked in an enormously slow breath, her eyes moving for the first time since she'd first glanced into the room beyond the doors. Even from here, she could glimpse wondrous things that had her skin prickling before she was even certain what she was seeing. The colours, the textures, the sheer solidity of mass ... the _scent_ of so many ancient and precious things had her giddy. The several glasses of bubbly she'd consumed offered not even the faintest preamble to ... _this_.

The vague realisation that her host was talking to her made Ellis aware she should speak, say _something_ , but her throat was dust and the air in her lungs turned to fluttering doves. She so dreadfully needed to offer some comment and yet she had no words that could possibly do justice to the spectacle they would be expected to describe. It was incredible, astonishing, overwhelming ...

" _Insane_ ," she breathed out. "This cannot be real. Have we fallen down a rabbit-hole?"

A hot surge of gratification spreading through him, Mycroft could not have stopped the satisfied smile that hard-curved his mouth had his life depended on it. He preened inwardly; Ellis Brite Wilde was _impressed_. "Come," he murmured, holding out a hand to her. "Welcome to my private collection," he watched her face reflect the multitude of emotions she was feeling as she stretched out her fingers, utterly unaware of the movement. Taking her hand, Mycroft felt her skin was even cooler than his and his eyes narrowed. This was not the alcohol; this was incipient shock. "Come and sit," he said, tugging her gently into the centre of the huge space where the capacious leather chairs still held their place, though they were softer and more worn now with age. "Breathing is still generally recommended," Mycroft smiled again as he crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured Ellis a small measure of cognac. Hard spirits on top of champagne was probably not the best of combinations, but the woman was dazed with wonder and something needed to be done.

Ellis had no real idea what was happening until she felt a sharp heat burn through her body. Coughing a little, her eyes regained their focus and her attention was drawn to the small glass her host was holding to her mouth and from which she had just sipped. The aromatic perfume of the distilled wine left her momentarily bemused, until everything came crashing back with an almighty jolt.

"Books," she choked, blinking rapidly, starting to look around. " _Books_."

He would not demean Ellis Wilde's experience by laughter, nor even by a condescending smile. Mycroft was perfectly aware his collection was unique, though he had never imagined it would be seen in its current totality by an expert in the field. Even he, the progenitor of this stupendous archive, found himself thrilled at times by a rediscovered gem, and so was unsurprised it would have such a tremendous effect on a newcomer. Yet despite the obvious discomposure the doctor had experienced, he felt a searing, almost sensual wave of pleasure at her reaction.

"Come," he repeated, taking the glass from the historian's unresisting fingers. "Let me show you my secrets."


	10. in which the past and the future are considered.

 

Greg Lestrade was seated at his desk finishing off the final sections of several reports where his signature, as ranking officer, was required. Knowing his people did their jobs well, the temptation to skim through the various parts of each report and simply sign his name at the bottom was endlessly tempting, but his professional credibility hung on things like this and so he read everything carefully and thoroughly. Thus, it was almost six and the evening sky dark for several hours by the time he signed-off on the last one, sighing a little as he stacked the printed reports neatly, pushing them to one side of his marginally less-cluttered desk. Greg had even gone so far as to shrug into his heavy winter coat and was just about to flick the main office light switch off when his desk phone rang. Closing his eyes and groaning he trudged back to pick it up knowing that, even if he walked away and left the office, whoever wanted him would probably get him one way or another. Despite the fact that he was only paid to run a 40-hour week and had farewelled shifts a while back, things rarely worked out quite so neatly. May as well deal with whatever it was directly and get it done. It might even be something he could close on the phone and still be able to make it home in plenty of time for a microwaved curry and a long, cold bottle of lager.

"Lestrade."

The jabbering at the far end of the call was rapid, shocked and left nothing to the imagination. Greg felt his blood chill and his mouth dry as his mind digested the details. "Where? Who's on site? Who else knows?"

More rapid muttering, the speaker's voice broken and hoarse with horror and the inspector knew there would be little sleep for him this night. There had been two more vampire murders.

###

Refusing to be put off, no matter what age-old tricks she tried to pull, Sherlock sipped his tea until the cup was empty, waiting until Kit's compendium of excuses ran dry. About to tease and gently torment the old woman into a full and frank confession, Sherlock suddenly noted her skin looked pale ... no; not pale ... _grey_. Instantly sitting back in his seat, Sherlock schooled his observation into a more professional mode. Though Kit camouflaged it well, she was ill, and not merely ill with age, but really _ill_. By the faint cyan tinge of her nail-beds and the unaccustomed pallor of her lips, it was an illness of the heart and circulatory system. Why had he not seen this before? Why had Mycroft said nothing? Why had Kit kept this from him?

No sooner had the questions been asked than his mind supplied the answers. He had not returned to the Pall Mall address regularly enough to observe such an incremental decline before today. Mycroft had said nothing because Kit had clearly asked him to say nothing, hence Mycroft's prevarication of a few days earlier. The ancient vampire hadn't exactly lied but obfuscated the situation through omission and dissembling. Equally as clearly, Kit did not want him to know because she still felt the need to protect him from the harsh realities of the world. After all these years, Sherlock realised that in her eyes, he would always be the stricken young charge. His chest tightened and his breathing caught. Even after all this time, Kit would rather suffer in silence than cause him worry, just as she'd done almost all his life. It was beyond bearing, and Sherlock felt his throat constrict and burn at the thought of it. It was a sensation he found uncomfortable and displeasing.

Closing his eyes fleetingly and regulating his breath, he comprehended he would have to speak to Mycroft before he did anything else or said anything to the old woman. If she was willing to take such steps in order to keep her illness a secret, Sherlock realised, albeit belatedly, that he might not have the right to take that secret from her. Blinking his pale blue eyes wide open, he smiled brightly. "Would you like some more tea?" he asked carefully, leaning forward and resting his long fingers across her smaller hand. "You sit there and cut us both a slice of that cake, and I'll put the kettle on for a fresh pot, shall I?" he focused his gaze. "You're up to no good, I can see, but you clearly have a reason for bringing a stranger into the house and trying to make Mycroft feel guilty about something, but I shall keep my thoughts to myself on that matter for the time being."

"More tea would be lovely, my dear," Kitta smiled gratefully, and not only for the tea.

Sherlock stood, reaching for the electric kettle and feeling a sharp burn of grief he'd not had since his childhood. _Kit_. His chest tightened again and an alien wave of melancholy squeezed his throat just as a rising tide of anger clenched his hand tight closed. He would speak to the older man before the evening was out and have the unvarnished truth of the matter. Mycroft would tell him everything or there would be hell to pay.

###

Ellis knew she was on the tipsy side not only because she felt a little sleepy but because she was torn between squeaking her excitement one moment and sucking in great shocked lungfuls of air in the next. The first thing she'd really noticed standing almost directly in from of her in this incredible room of books was a spectacular celestial globe. A mid-nineteenth century Malby by the looks of it, encased in mahogany and standing almost as high as her chest. The thing was _huge_ , at least sixty inches in diameter, an almost unheard of size. Ringed by a gleaming brass horizon band marked with the months of the year and the sigils of the astrological houses, all rotating within the brass engraved meridian ring. It was _amazing_ ; she'd never seen anything quite like it before, and Mycroft hadn't even bothered to stop and show her; but had walked straight past it towards a glass-encased cabinet some feet away. Itching to convince herself the thing was real, to have her hands on it and feel it rotate to heavenly co-ordinates beneath her touch, the historian looked about her for some protective hand-coverings, though there was none immediately obvious. So she simply stood, hands clasped tight against her chest, gawping helplessly at such magnificent craftsmanship.

"Here," Mycroft was at her shoulder, dangling a pair of fine white cotton gloves in front of her face. "I believe you wanted these?"

Not bothering to ask if he were a mind-reader as well as an incredibly wealthy collector of flawless antiquities, Ellis pulled the light fabric over her fingers and immediately ran a delicate touch along the meticulously demarked and curved brass rules holding the globe in place. The device moved as smoothly as oil on glass and in utter silence, the entire thing as untouched and perfect as if it had been made only yesterday. In her career thus far, Ellis had seen an uncounted number of fabulous and beautiful things, yet she had never really coveted any of them until this moment.

"Superb," she whispered, the amazement of having her hands on such an immaculate marvel clearing her head of any alcoholic haze, as she spread her fingers wide and drew them sensitively down the meticulously illustrated and painted outer casing of the great golden globe. " _Stupendous_."

Watching his guest lose herself entirely in what was only a trifling element of his great collection, Mycroft found it impossible to avoid wondering how those fingertips might feel stroking his face. A vague trickle of want stirred within him.

 _Beryan_.

"I had imagined these might be more to your liking, actually," the unplanned lowering of his voice to a gravelly baritone seemed to go unnoticed, for which Mycroft was wholly thankful. He was here to show the historian pieces of his special collection, not embark upon a seduction. Gesturing towards the glass-topped Hepplewhite case which had originally been his intended destination, Mycroft stood unmoving as Ellis finally managed to tear her attention away from the great globe and turn to face him. Allowing her eyes to follow the direction of his hand, she stepped closer; only to falter again the moment she was able to see even part-way through the clear glass cover.

It was the heavy glow of gold that did it; Ellis couldn't recall seeing that much of the decorative metal in one place outside of the British Museum. "Oh, good _grief_ ," she hissed _sotto voce_ , her hand reaching up to clutch heedlessly at Mycroft's upper arm as she leaned over the case.

An early eighteenth-century mahogany sideboard, splendid in its own right, built to accommodate a deep, glass-topped casement. Inside the case were three large books, each resting on a cushion of richly purple velvet padding. Religious tomes, and, like the globe, unique of their type. The middle one, open and displaying the earliest mechanically-printed text in Tyndale's English, was clear and unaffected by time.

"These are very early Geneva Bibles," awe-struck, Ellis kept her white-gloved fingers scrunched tight in the sleeve of Mycroft's dark suit. "And important ones, too."

"Mid-sixteenth-century," Mycroft's tone matched the historian's. "Gold-cased, lined with handwoven royal silk and triple gold-edged," he added, taking her free hand and bringing her a little closer to the cabinet. "These once belonged to a King," he added, as if such information would be needed. "It took a very long time to be able to reunite them like this." Lifting the glass lid, he detached the hand still affixed to his arm and drew it down towards the open, and largest of the three volumes, in the centre of the case. "Be my guest," he murmured, his eyes watching the myriad expressions crossing her face; the historian's transparent reaction of thrilled awe was far too delightful to miss.

Not bothering to ask if he were absolutely sure he didn't mind her touching pieces from his precious collection, Ellis carefully slid her hands around and beneath the middle book, closing and lifting it carefully and slowly until it was level with her waist. The book and its golden cover was a heavy weight and Ellis had no desire to attempt to hold it for very long.

"Over here," Mycroft walked several feet away, indicating a strangely high and narrow table where he had already arranged a series of padded triangular blocks to create a shallow V-shape. Nodding her understanding, Ellis walked across and placed the book spine-down into the supportive embrace of the padding.

"Where did this _come_ from?" she breathed in amazement, opening the front cover with exquisite delicacy. "I've not seen anything like this in any of the specialist sales for the last twenty years," she said. "Was it a private sale, or has it been in your family's collection for a long time?"

Avidly watching her white-sheathed fingers caress and lift the jewel-studded gold plated cover, Mycroft felt another rush of sensual pleasure as the historian's own enjoyment was telegraphed loud and clear in her breathing and micro gestures. He had never invited any expert such as she into his library before, and the effect that his carefully curated collectables were having on Doctor Wilde was as pleasurable to him as were the items themselves. Indeed, parts of him seemed extraordinarily aware of the good doctor's presence.

The bibles were a very special collection in their own right. He'd managed to obtain this largest and most dazzling one not long after its original owner had died at a very early age. Of the other two, one he'd managed to track down and obtain through a large payment enabling the owner to settle a hefty death-duty bill, and the other he had won as the result of a rather reckless wager. But as he had acquired the last of the three more than two hundred years ago, Mycroft felt discretion to be the greater part of valour in this instance.

"A gift," he said easily. "From a long-time colleague." John Dudley, First Duke of Northumberland had indeed been a colleague ... of a sort. Right up to the moment the man's head had been lopped from his shoulders for treason against the newly crowned Mary.

Recognising the royal coat of arms emblazoned in solid gold on a front cover already heavy with the stuff, Ellis took another deep breath as she worked out who the original owner must have been. "These were the English arms between 1509 and 1554," Ellis turned several hand-illustrated pages over with the greatest of care, a small frown lining her forehead. "They belonged to Henry VIII and his only legitimate son, Edward VI," she paused, narrowing her eyes in thought. "But the Geneva bible wasn't supposed to have even been written until 1557, let alone be printed in such an elaborate and exotic form before then, and Edward died in 1554, unless ..." she paused, turning from the book to look up into Mycroft's eyes.

"This book is far too recent to belong to Henry," she said, "who died in 1547, years before Mary's attempt at Catholic reformation forced Protestant scholars to flee for their lives to the Continent and write the thing," Ellis paused, thinking. "Therefore, this had to have been written and printed at the very end of Edward's reign, even while he was dying, in fact, so that he might have a true Protestant bible fit for a king that no Catholic queen could ever unwrite," pausing again, Mycroft saw her eyes widen in disbelief as understanding of the bible's provenance sunk in. "These are Edward's _Textus Receptus?_ " Ellis brought a gloved hand to cover her open mouth. "The fabled bibles written for the boy-king shortly before his death so that he might approve one of the versions as the new English standard?" Looking back down at the brilliantly beautiful relic on the table in front of her, she exhaled loudly. "I may need some more of your brandy," she muttered, closing the book with the utmost care and stepping back and away from the table, as if the tome was too prized to suffer the touch of a mere mortal.

"How on earth do you have these things?" she demanded, meeting Mycroft's eyes again. "And don't tell me they were a gift; nobody gives things like these as gifts," she added, pursing her mouth and looking contemplative. "Was your family in royal service to the Tudors?"

At least he could answer this one truthfully, though perhaps not completely. He smiled. "There has been a man of my line present in one capacity or another in every royal house since before the Kings of Wessex sat on their throne in Winchester, though the family name has evolved through time, as you can imagine," he nodded musingly. That the man had been himself in every case was neither here nor there. "It has been a colourful and a somewhat eventful relationship."

"I just bet it has," Ellis murmured, returning her gaze to the golden book on the table in front of her. "Though it still doesn't explain how you come to have these incredible things in your private collection," she said, frowning again. "These bibles are of international importance and should be, if not actually in the Royal collection themselves, then at least in the British Museum so that everyone can see them for the wondrous things they are."

Mycroft looked down at his linked fingers. "I've already made arrangements for the collection to be donated _in toto_ to the nation upon my death," he said quietly. "I know this isn't exactly what you would prefer to hear, but since the family line will stop with me, I have taken certain steps to ensure the collection will be treated appropriately when the time comes," he added. "I will have no heirs, you see."

" _Oh_ ," Ellis wasn't sure why she suddenly felt a little sad. That this magnificent collection might one day be broken up, or perhaps that there would be a time when Mycroft Holmes was no longer among them, or even perhaps that there would be no further extension of the Holmes family line. "What about your brother?"

"Sherlock?" Mycroft looked at her, a small smile lighting his face before he shook his head. "Sherlock has made it very clear he has no plans for the continuation of the Holmes family line, and even if he were to change his mind at some point in the future, he has not the least interest in the continued curation of all ... this," he said, lifting up his hands and casting his eyes around the vast perimeter of the room. "A shame, but there's little point in romanticising the situation."

"So all this will end with you?" Ellis stared around at the massively tall shelving covering each wall, at the incredible stained-glass windows, at the statues, the glass-topped cabinets. " _Oh_."

Sensing the conversation was heading towards the sentimental, Mycroft caught the historian's hand. "Come see my lions," he said, tugging her from the centre of the room towards one of its corners where a great white cat waited, its eyes forever staring off towards an unseen horizon, perhaps into the distance of history itself. "Landseer made these," he murmured as Ellis stood before the statue nearest the doors; her gloved hand stroking down a cold marble flank. "They were trials for his design in Trafalgar Square, though those ones, of course, are much larger."

"They're beautiful," Ellis rested both hands on the cool stone and leaned her forehead against the big cat's chest. "What are their names?"

 _Nobody had ever asked him for their names before_. Mycroft felt something inside him surge with euphoria. He had waited more than one hundred and fifty years to find anyone sufficiently interested to ask him their names. "Here at the south corner is _Sekhmet_ ," he said, the calmness of his voice belying his satisfaction. "The one to the west is _Bes_. In the north we have _Maahes_ , and across to the east is _Bast_ ," he finished, watching her and waiting for her inevitable assessment. He felt sure she would know the names and understand their significance.

Nodding, Ellis reached up and stroked the cat's shoulder. "Appropriate," she said. "They are indeed godly creatures and should be venerated as such," she turned suddenly, fixing Mycroft with intelligent eyes. " _You_ ," she observed in something of an analytical tone, "are a huge romantic. For all that this place is built and sustained by what even I can see is really old money and service to Queen and Country, what actually keeps this place alive is _you_ ," stepping away from the enormous marble lion, Ellis walked closer to him, sizing him up and down as if meeting him for the first time.

"I appreciate all manner of beauty and beautiful things," Mycroft felt his mouth dry as the living image of his old love stood close before him. "They compensate me for things I have lost and shall never have again."

 _What a strange thing to say_. "What is it you've lost that makes such compensation necessary?" Ellis looked up into a pair of mesmeric dark blue eyes that seemed to be carrying on an entire conversation with her all by themselves. "What things are so impossibly unique that you can never have them again?"

 _The sun, the blue skies of summer, the love of one who was taken from me_. Meeting her gaze, Mycroft felt the slow crawl of desire prickle across his skin. Ellis Wilde was the personification of Beryan of Isca. Was it wrong to feel arousal at her proximity? Was it the ghost of his long-dead lover that called to him here, in this place, or was it the fascinating young historian whose heart he could hear beat harder whenever she beheld the splendour of the past? Of the two women, which one was it that created the pulse of longing he could feel resounding through him, even now? Who would be in his arms if he sought that reality ... Beryan or Ellis?

Ellis watched as the eyes of the man beside her grew wider and darker at her questions, as if he were seeing something invisible to her. She could swear he was leaning closer, his eyes more black now than blue, it was almost as if he was about to ...

"I'm sorry," feeling strangely dizzy, she looked away. "I have no right to ask you such personal questions. I forget myself, sometimes. Please forgive me."

There was a heaviness in the air as if a storm was threatening.

"I have a number of other very fine items in my library that you will likely find of interest," Mycroft's smile was fleeting as he stepped back suddenly, his features schooled once more into a polite mask. "These bibles are magnificent, as you say, yet here," he indicated the very next glass-topped cabinet, "is something of equal rarity, if you are familiar with Plutarch."

 _Plutarch?_ Ellis felt her head spin again. Was it the champagne that made her think the man had almost kissed her, or had she simply been imagining it? She felt very warm, so alcohol seemed the likely candidate. Clearing her throat and inhaling sharply to clear her head, Ellis peered into the next case, only to see twin first folios of Plutarch's _Vitae_ , printed and hand-illuminated. The identification card announced the date of printing was 1440, and that the manual illuminations had been done in Rome which, of course, was absolutely impossible. Gutenberg only invented his moveable press in 1439, and to have produced something with such complexity in Germany in such a short space of time _and then to have it sent to a Vatican cloister for illumination by hand_ ... was incredible. The date had to be wrong. Leaning closer to see the fine print in more detail, Ellis missed the wave of relief that momentarily smoothed all expression from Mycroft's face as he blinked rapidly and loosened the knot of his tie.

###

Mycroft and the woman, whom Kit had advised was from the London Museum, showing him a business card in glorious Technicolour, had been in the library for almost an hour. In that time, Sherlock had drunk more tea than he had all week, had bitten the inside of his mouth in order to stop himself from blurting out everything he had already deduced about his elderly nanny. That she was ill with a heart-related condition was painfully obvious. That Kit had also come to some pathetic arrangement with Mycroft not to say anything about it was so outrageous as to be verging on the offensive. If Kit had left the room for but a few moments, he would have been able to ascertain the precise nature of her illness as she was keeping her medication in the larger of the two ovens, judging by the several looks she had unrealisingly cast its way; out of sight but convenient and in a place only she would go. Given Kit's age and general condition, and the fact that she had become unwell in increments pointed to some form of narrowed arteries and reduced blood flow; Angina would be the most likely. But why had she chosen not to say anything to him? Did she consider him so immature that he could not bear to hear of her suffering? _Kit_.

Saying nothing, he dutifully ate the chicken sandwich she had insisted on making him, since he'd already told her he wasn't going to be staying for dinner. He'd also taken his case up to his old room which, apart from looking a lot cleaner and emptier than he remembered, had changed little since his university days. There was still the faint scorch-mark on the rug where, aged ten, his paraffin-fuelled steam engine had singed the nap; the near invisible dent in the high ceiling where, aged eleven, his indoor rocket almost became an outdoor one. Following the fire at his flat, the more expensive elements of his rescued clothing were either at the dry-cleaners in an attempt to rid it of the smoke, or had been unceremoniously dumped in the nearest skip since no cleaner would take them, thus his luggage was minimal.

Throwing his case onto the bed, Sherlock knew three things were about to happen. He was going to find out from Mycroft exactly what was going on with Kit and just what Ellis Wilde, _Research Historian_ , was doing in Mycroft's inner sanctum. He was also going to update the older man on the initial results of his tests at Bart's that afternoon. And then he would purloin a half-dozen of Mycroft's best, hand-made shirts. Even though they would inevitably be conservative and dull, they would also be of the highest quality. About to head down to the floor below and into Mycroft's private dressing room, his phone rang. Lifting it to his ear, the urgent tone of Inspector Lestrade's voice had him running out the bedroom door and down the stairs towards the front door even as he listened.

"Where? When? Who's there?"

Within moments, he had grabbed his coat and ran outside, hailing the first cab in sight.

###

About to show his guest another prized item, this one a first edition in English of Newton's landmark _Principia_ , published two years after the great man's death, Mycroft's Blackberry rang. "Excuse me," he murmured, moving away to take the call. "Sherlock? Unable to stagger the distance to the library from the kitchen under the weight of your intellectual superiority?"

"Don't be an arse, Mycroft," the younger man sounded faintly breathless. "There's been another occurrence of the so-called Vampire killings and I felt sure you'd want to know."

Immediately on high alert, Mycroft's mind snapped into deep-analysis mode. " _Tell me_."

"Empty massage parlour in SoHo; a seedy place in Brewer Street. Looks like it's been vacant for a while; there's a _To Let_ sign outside that's been there since well before Christmas. Lestrade's got people chasing the owner of the place now, much good that will do."

Mycroft felt his eyebrows rise. "Is there an approximate time of death yet?"

"No doubt the pathologists will be able to supply a somewhat more specific time, but judging by the depth to which the blood has soaked into the carpet and the dryness of the various spatter patterns on the wall, and taking into consideration the general ambient temperature and humidity of late, together with the lack of air movement in the room and ..."

"Just tell me, Sherlock," Mycroft lifted his eyes to heaven in search of patience.

"I'd say not more than thirty-six to forty-eight hours ago at most," Sherlock spoke rapidly. "It's the same layout as in both previous cases; two bodies, or rather, one body and a bucket of spare-parts."

"I have to see the scene for myself," Mycroft was already preparing a story for his guest to excuse his precipitous departure. "I'll have the usual arrangements made and will be with you shortly." Ending the call, he hit a speed dial number. _Anthea_. "I need two cars at my Pall Mall address immediately," he directed quietly. One to SoHo, the other to Camberwell. I also want to extend the current defence advisory notice on the double-killings series to cover all further incidents, so please advise the Home Office accordingly." Turning immediately to Ellis, currently gazing rapturously as a small seventeenth-century Flemish tapestried screen. "I am genuinely sorry," he began, truthfully. "But a matter of some urgency has arisen and I must leave now," he paused. "I've arranged for a car to take you home, so please don't be concerned about finding a taxi in the rush hour," he smiled and paused, a little awkwardly. "It's been wonderful to have someone here who understands the importance of all this," he looked around before returning his gaze to Ellis. "I hope you'll consider returning in the near future so that I might continue to surprise you," he smiled down into eyes he had fallen in love with more than two thousand years before.

Once again, Ellis felt there was a much bigger conversation going on between them than mere words could encompass. "I should like that very much," she blinked and nodded.

"I have your card," Mycroft knew he had to leave, but was inexplicably reluctant to end this time together. "Soon," he added, as Ellis turned towards the library's double doors. "I'll call you soon."

###

Anthea was waiting for him in the Jaguar as the big car headed down the Mall, crossing Regent Street and speeded through the theatre district. "The Home Secretary was not entirely pleased with being summoned by his people after working hours for what is, and I quote," she said, pulling out her phone and selecting a stored message. "'An unpleasant but minor police matter,' unquote," she laid her hand down in her lap. "Since you're involving yourself personally, I can see that it's neither minor and possibly not even a police matter anymore," she said. "Care to enlighten me?"

She was coming along very nicely, Mycroft realised. Almost too well if she was so quickly able to make such inferences with ease and certitude. "Sherlock's involved," he murmured. "I merely keep abreast of my brother's activities to ensure he pursues his passion at minimal risk to his wellbeing."

And that was a load of bollocks, wasn't it? Andrea held her silence. Sherlock Holmes had been getting up to all sorts of things in the last few months that Himself hadn't bothered checking up on, so that was a lie he'd just told her, the first one she'd been able to spot.

 _Excellent_.

If there was something important enough to make Mycroft Holmes lie about it, then she wanted to know, because anything that needed a lie to exist made it a weakness, and anything that was a weakness meant it would be easier to kill the man if she could make the weakness work in her favour.

As the Jaguar headed up the Haymarket and into Denman Street, Anthea smiled on the side of her face nearest the window.


	11. in which the plot thickens and emotions rise.

 

It was rather amusing, really. Watching them scurry about the place like so many ants under the glare of a magnifying glass. First this one, and then another running around with absolutely no clue as to what they were doing or what was being done to them. And by the time any of them worked out exactly what was happening, it would be entirely too late and the whole thing would be over: Mycroft Holmes and all those close to him would be dead.

The man whom a large part of the Serious Crimes Division of the London Met had come to think of as the 'Vampire Killer' smiled to himself as he drove by the closed-off streets and secured police forensic sites, _his sites_ , with their garlands of garish yellow barricade tape: _Crime scene – Do not cross_. Standing now in the dark at an uncurtained window of his very expensive hotel penthouse suite, he sipped from a crystal glass of brandy and watched the blue and red flashing lights far below as yet another police vehicle rolled down another London street. It was like watching chickens squabble and fight over meal-scraps; since nobody knew what had happened, what was happening and what, more importantly, was still _going_ to happen. Those supposedly in charge of the situation he had created with such care and forethought, were essentially at sea, in the middle of a midnight-dark ocean, having neither compass nor starlight to fix their position.

Savouring his brandy again, the man laughed, turning away from the view and flicking on one of the suite's several large plasma televisions. He was still chuckling when the early evening news came on; leading with a story of the latest political scandal and nary a whisper of the messy stage-show he'd left for the police in SoHo. Clearly, _someone_ was determined to keep things under wraps which was something of a pity as he would liked to have seen a minor panic sweep through the city. But no matter. He'd arranged things in such a way that the very cryptic nature of the crime, the sheer obscurity and heinous manner of the killings was such that the police would undoubtedly be wallowing in their own bafflement, so much so, in fact, that it would be painfully obvious they would need every bit of help they could get in this case. A case so evidently calculated and yet so unspeakable that one person in particular would eventually, inevitably, be involved; _Sherlock Holmes_. And once the young Holmes was enmeshed in the coils of his plan, then so too eventually, _inevitably_ , would be his so-called elder brother, Mycroft Holmes. And once Holmes the Elder was involved, the endgame could begin.

It had taken a great deal of effort to set the scene, as it were, in order that the final act of the performance might be properly appreciated. It was a virtuoso accomplishment that had already run under the police spotlights for several weeks and soon to be approaching its final curtain call.

The last night was very close now.

###

Ellis realised she was in a very odd frame of mind as she made herself comfortable in the back seat of the luxurious black BMW that had drawn up to the front of the Holmes' Pall Mall residence not five minutes after Mycroft's Jaguar had pulled away. And while it was obvious the man was incredibly central and critical in whatever job he did for the government, especially to be called away so suddenly as he had been, it seemed to her that he hadn't really wanted to end the evening the way it had been forced to end. Or was the champagne making her imagine things?

Waiting for her promised ride home, Ellis stood just inside the partially open front door, watching Mycroft slide elegantly into the back of his opulent government car; that alone being quite sufficient to tell her that he didn't exactly work as a clerk. The car and its passenger sped off into the dark of the growing evening and Ellis didn't know what to make of things.

"Mycroft Holmes is the best of men," Kit's voice was quiet at her shoulder. "I bin with him for more than twenty-five year'n, and I won't have no word spoken against him," she nodded emphatically. "Even if he do rush hither and yon when he ought not to."

"Does anyone speak badly about him?" Ellis found herself curious on the point. It was to be expected that someone of Mycroft's obvious importance would have accumulated more than one or two opponents in his career.

"Not that I've heard," Kitta's smile was unexpectedly wicked. "He has a way about him of worrying people away if he don't like 'em, see," she added, pausing as the BMW swung into view. "Seems he likes you right enough though," she spoke in a thoughtful voice. "Seems proper smitten, in fact," she wrinkled her forehead in consideration and sniffed reflectively. "Now don't you wait here talking to me and catching your death," she said. "Off you trot; I'm sure you'll be hearing from him before long, my dear." There was a vaguely speculative tone in her voice.

Mycroft Holmes liked her? Liked her more than ... _smitten?_ Ellis wasn't entirely sure what to think about that snippet of information. What little she'd already seen of the man's private collection identified it as the equal of and quite possibly, better than any she'd seen at the best of museums, and it wouldn't have taken an expert to see she'd been enthralled by the Holmes family devotion to history. So, was it _herself_ that Mycroft liked, or was it her professional capacity in the preservation and curation of artefacts that he liked? Ellis knew full well she'd been guilty of a little awestruck admiration, but she didn't think something like that would have much effect on a man such as her erstwhile host. More than likely he had simply enjoyed having someone new looking at the magnificent collection of treasures. Yes, that would be what it was.

Getting comfortable in the extravagant rear seat of the BMW, she gave the driver her address and felt not even the slightest judder as it pulled away from the kerb and swung into the main stream of busy, peak-time traffic. Contemplating the lights of shops and buildings as they passed silently by, the ring of her phone in her bag was a little startling in the padded silence of the car.

"Hello?" the caller's name was hidden and it was too dark in the car to see anything else.

"Apologies once again for deserting you in such an ill-mannered fashion," Mycroft's voice was velvet in her ear. "An idea has occurred and I felt it wise to share it with you sooner rather than later."

_An idea?_

"You did say you were going to call me, though I wasn't quite expecting anything this soon," Ellis found she was smiling. Perhaps Kit hadn't been entirely wrong in her assessment. Perhaps he did like her a little. "What's the idea?"

"Cocktails," Mycroft sounded very matter-of-fact. "Tomorrow night, if you're free, and then we could continue your interrupted perusal of the collection, if that might appeal."

_If it appealed?_

"Sounds like a very good plan," Ellis smiled a little more. "I'm probably going to be working until at least six or so; do you want me to meet you somewhere later?"

"Would it be convenient for me to collect you from the museum sometime around six-thirty and we can go to a little place I know not far from Whitehall? I'm afraid there won't be time to offer you dinner, but cocktails ..?"

Ellis had never been invited out simply for cocktails before and the idea charmed her. She could arrange a late lunch ... and the idea of seeing more of the Holmes collection was exciting.

 _And to be honest, the idea of seeing more of the man himself was exciting too_ ...

"Sounds like a very good plan indeed," she was grinning now. "Outside the main entrance around half-past six, then," Ellis looked through the car's window. Things seemed to happening very swiftly. "Until tomorrow, Mr Holmes."

"Mycroft, _please_ , Doctor Wilde," his voice was dark chocolate-smooth.

"If it's Mycroft, then it really has to be Ellis," she found herself grinning again, though for the life of her, she couldn't think why.

"Until tomorrow then ... _Ellis_." There was the slightest of pauses, and the call was over.

As the loaned car pulled up outside the low-rise building where she had a small flat on the second floor, Ellis was surprised when the driver stepped briskly around to open her door and see her safely inside the building.

"Have a nice evening, Miss," the man in a dark, nondescript suit nodded briefly and then both he and the car were gone.

Ellis ran up the two flights of stairs to her front door, a smile stuck to her face. Whatever else, Mycroft Holmes had style.

###

Returning the phone to an inner pocket just as the Jaguar arrived at the cordoned-off police barricade, Mycroft was aware that Anthea had been listening carefully to his conversation with Ellis Wilde. Since he had already explained the reason for this evening's outing as having to do with Sherlock's involvement with the police, he was mildly surprised when she handed him one of the latest of the newly developed iPads loaded with all the relevant data on the so-called 'Vampire murders'. Flicking his gaze across the information, Mycroft pursed his mouth. Either her contacts were superior to his own, or her training was better than he had realised. He turned to face her, lifting an eyebrow but remaining silent.

"I know you've been keeping tabs on the situation," she began, "and when I heard there'd been burst of police radio traffic this evening around SoHo, I put two and two together and thought you might find a summary helpful," she said. "Especially if you want to ensure the, ah ... _minimal_ risk to your brother."

She had deduced he'd fabricated the reason for their visit? Very well.

"Quite," he scrolled swiftly down through the pages of text. "Sometimes Sherlock's antics provide the perfect smokescreen," a smile flickered across his mouth. "Saves inconvenient explanations," he paused. "I assume the Home Secretary contacted the Police Commissioner?"

"Of course, sir," Anthea nodded. "DI Lestrade should have been fully briefed on your presence at the scene, though most everyone else will assume you're there because of Sherlock."

"Good," looking out of the window, the flashing red and blue lights suggested they had arrived at their destination. Stepping out from the big black Jaguar, Mycroft felt the chill of a winter's evening bite as he pulled a pair of heavy leather gloves onto his hands. Scanning the assembled groups, the senior officer was relatively easy to spot, since most of the people waiting were all looking in the same direction.

"Evening," Lestrade nodded towards the well-dressed stranger as the last of his team headed off to do their job. He looked at the pair of constables in hi-vis gear standing at the cordon and keeping the public at bay ... _supposedly_ keeping the public at bay. "This is an ongoing police investigation, sir," he blocked Mycroft's progress, extending his arm back towards the cordon. "However you got in here and whatever your reason for being here might be, I strongly suggest you leave now." He smiled his best and most portentous senior police officer smile.

"Holmes," Mycroft stood with both hands resting on the handle of his ubiquitous umbrella. "With the Home Office."

 _Ah_ , so _that_ was the reason for the call from the Commissioner not ten minutes before.

"And what makes you think there's anything you can see or do here that might in any way help me and my team do our jobs, Mr Holmes?" Greg smiled again, though not as friendly as the first time.

"Finally!" Sherlock appeared out of the darkness to interrupt them, coat flaring with every long stride, Byronic curls waving around in the cold night air. "You took your time."

Looking between the two dark-haired men, Lestrade proved he was not a detective for nothing. "You two know each other, I take it? Any relation?" he asked, turning back to the older man.

"Inspector Lestrade, may I introduce my brother Mycroft who does all manner of things for the British government and for any other government whom he feels needs his help whether they actually want it or not," he turned to meet Mycroft's dark eyes, glinting in the flashing blue lights. "Mycroft, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the Serious Crimes Division and one of the slightly lesser incompetent individuals at the Met ... now can we _please_ get _on?_ "

"You sure you want to be in on this?" Greg fell into step beside the taller man, only then noticing the dark-haired young woman a couple of steps away who seemed intent on accompanying them. "This is no sight for the squeamish, nor ..." he paused delicately, "is it something I'd want my daughter to see," he added, carefully not looking in Anthea's direction.

"Just as well I'm not your daughter, Inspector," she smiled tightly. Based on the case photographs she'd managed to see from the two previous incidents, she wasn't particularly looking forward to walking around a grisly crime-scene, but she'd be damned if she'd let a man tell her she couldn't.

"Have it your way, then," Lestrade looked sideways at the elder Holmes' elegant outfit. "Pardon me from saying, but you don't seem the type to get your hands dirty," the detective paused by the taped-off doorway, looking between the newcomers. "Last chance to not see this."

Ignoring the words of advice and stepping boldly into the actinic police lighting, Mycroft observed and mentally documented everything within the range of his vision.

The staged performance, the eviscerated arrangement, the sheer voluptuousness of the entire production. _Someone had put on a show for them_. About to comment as much to Sherlock, Mycroft's attention was taken by the sound of a suppressed cry. Turning, he saw Anthea with both hands tight across her mouth, what remained visible of her face was tragic in the blinding white lights.

"Outside, I think," Mycroft wrapped an arm around her waist and half-carried her from the building into the icy clean air of the street beyond, where he had he lean against the still-warm bonnet of the Jaguar. "Breathe deep," he directed, keeping a very watchful eye on her face. If she were going to faint, he'd catch her, but he'd rather not embarrass his assistant without cause. She appeared to be regulating her responses more successfully now.

"Better?" he asked softly. "It was a somewhat more gruesomely contrived setting than either of the other two," he said. "Little wonder it took you by surprise."

Sucking down great lungfuls of the freezing air, Andrea finally felt the dizziness and nausea retreat. "It wasn't the scene itself," she muttered grimly. "It was the _smell_."

Ah, yes. Mycroft nodded in understanding. As a veteran of many battlefields, he'd forgotten how the stench of blood and death could affect those unused to it.

"While I genuinely appreciate your willingness to assist me at all times," he said. "I believe this particular instance may be considered just a little too far beyond the call of duty, don't you think? It would make me feel much better if you would take the car home and return to the office only when you feel properly recovered; perhaps take tomorrow off and focus on the world of the living for a little while, hmm?"

Sitting on the front of the big polished car, it was hard for Andrea to accept what she was hearing. Mycroft Holmes being nice? While he hadn't been actively unpleasant to her in any way thus far, she had known it was only a matter of time before the man revealed his true colours. She had seen no prior evidence that he could behave as ... as a human being.

"That won't be necessary at all, sir," she gulped as she stood slowly, her legs feeling less jelly-like than a few minutes before. "I'm fine now, thank you."

"Then take this," he said, handing her the pure white handkerchief from his breast pocket. "Do you have anything you could use to make this into a pomander?"

Nodding briefly and diving into her shoulder bag, Andrea produce a small bottle of the perfume she normally wore. After sprinkling it liberally onto the fine lawn cotton, she tied the kerchief bandit-style around the back of her head. She might look odd, but at least she was more prepared now. She stood straighter and nodded. "Ready when you are."

"You're a brave woman, Ms Worthington," Mycroft raised his eyebrows and smiled fleetingly. "Few people would be strong enough to return to such a place. I am increasingly impressed by your abilities," he paused, gesturing to the entrance of the building. "Shall we?"

Sherlock pounced again almost as soon as they made it back in through the door. "Did you see the signs?" he demanded quietly, steering Mycroft by his upper arm back into the main empty space where the bodies had been located. "The details, Mycroft ... _the details!_ "

Mycroft had indeed noted the small trail of increasingly faint round circles, more like dots, really. The steel ferule of an umbrella, just like the one he always carried. He cast his eyes further about, not at the rigid corpse sprawled on the small wooden chair in the middle of the room, nor even at the deliberately staged artifice that was the scene of an apparent berserker bloodlust. The remains of the dead had no interest for him other than as symptoms of the killer's intent, no, what was far more interesting were all the minutia of the setting.

The umbrella tracks; the two half-smoked silk cut cigarette stubs thrown oh-so-carelessly down by the doorway; the single dark button he'd noticed lurking beneath the chair holding the dead man upright, which without doubt would be a match to the buttons Mycroft preferred for his own waistcoats. The entire _tableau_ had been meticulously constructed, a stage-piece intended to be viewed in only one way by a very particular audience.

Someone ... someone very powerful and very dangerous, was attempting to set him up. What was even more concerning, whoever the killer was thought they knew him well enough to be able to draw a logical line between him and this savage slaughter. Whoever had done this had placed him in an incredibly grave situation. Even if the evidence was purely circumstantial, it would be more than enough to have him drawn into a very unwelcome limelight. Difficult questions would be asked. There would be ... suspicions ... possibly even a demand for _blood_ _tests_. Events might shortly be in train that could threaten his very way of existence and derail everything he had so carefully assembled for the last five hundred years. Not only what he being threatened on a very personal level, but if the secret of his true nature was made public, he would never again be able to work effectively in the role he'd made his own since the end of the last war, a position so integral with the security and safety of the British Isles, that any attack on him was akin to an act of terrorism against Britain itself.

Therefore he would take steps to ensure this eventuality did not materialise, even if it meant he had to dismantle much of what he had come to think of as his life. This was nothing short of coercion, and since there could be only one real reason that anyone might wish to expose him in such a deliberate manner, then the nature of the killer was in itself of enormous interest.

"I've seen everything I need to see here," he had already turned back towards the doorway when Sherlock appeared with Lestrade in tow. He raised his eyebrows in query. "Sherlock?"

"I need to discuss the findings of the tests I carried out earlier today," Sherlock looked between the two men and spoke intently. "The results were surprising."

"Not here," Mycroft shook his head fractionally. "Somewhere less ... public," he paused, nodding at the masked Anthea as she gestured towards the exit. "I know just the place."

###

Scant minutes later, stepping out into the cold not far from the Carlton Club in St James, and after finally convincing Anthea to take the Jaguar home, both Holmes men waited until the following car parked nearby. That there was explicitly no parking permitted here made little difference as Greg Lestrade's silver BMW was registered with the Met, and anyone considering giving him a ticket would quickly be persuaded otherwise. In moments, the three men had entered a splendidly well-lit building, mid-Victorian architecture at its very best, heading towards a pair of panelled doors, behind which was the smooth steel façade of a lift. It descended rapidly, though briefly.

The office Mycroft had created for himself in the depths of the Diogenes Club was as elegant as it was mysterious. While his working environment in Whitehall was of necessity somewhat more functionally designed in keeping with a modern, though little-known department of the Home Office, his quarters beneath the club he had helped found over one hundred years before were the epitome of high Edwardian style. In all the time he'd owned the building, Mycroft had seen no good reason why he might not make this particular element of his life as comfortable as any other part.

As the upper floors of the well-designed building had been given over to the housing of the gentleman's club, created in the days when the measure of a true gentleman was far different from that which passed for one at the end of the twentieth-century, it was of scant surprise to Greg Lestrade that Mycroft's private subterranean office was as resplendent as everything else about the man. The place fairly reeked of money and style.

From the glorious dark maroon-and-gold intricacies of the original William Morris wallpaper, to the substantial fireplace in the centre of the main wall, braced on either side by well-filled lustrous African Sapele bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling, right down to the luxuriant hand-knotted Persian carpet, the entire place sang of personal indulgence.

"This is quite a hideaway you have down here," Greg was quite sure he'd never been in anything like this kind of gentleman's retreat before, but he could see the attraction. Throwing his heavy overcoat across a sturdy ottoman, he sank wearily into a massive dark wine leather chair, its padding so deep as to make him feel he was being wrapped up in the thing. It was incredibly comfortable, more so even than his bed at home and a lot more welcoming. "I could sleep in this," he muttered, cautiously allowing his body to relax in increments. There was a strong impression of illicit luxury about everything down here and Greg felt an almost puritanistic sense of wickedness at such decadence.

Striking a long match, Mycroft put it to the kindling in the already-laid fire, a glowing blaze very quickly threw dancing shadows across the room. Bar the crackling of burning wood, everything was quiet and lush and Greg felt himself beginning to nod off..

The clinking of a decanter roused him somewhat, as did the fragrance of some very decently aged malt as the glass appeared at his hand.

"You've never been to the club before, Inspector?" the elder Holmes handed a second glass to Sherlock before taking one for himself and sitting in a graceful swivel chair behind the vast desk. "No, of course you haven't. You should try it sometime; I could arrange a temporary membership if you fancy the idea."

"Lestrade enjoys the society of others far too much to make him a suitable member of the Diogenes," Sherlock too had lounged back into a deep armchair, watching the flickering light of the fire. "Keeping secrets to himself doesn't come entirely naturally to him, does it Inspector?" Sherlock cast a waspish glance towards Mycroft with his final words. "Unlike some."

Frowning at the unexpected venom in the statement, Mycroft leaned forward, linking his fingers together and turning his gaze towards his silver-haired guest. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me this evening, Inspector Lestrade; I appreciate you not wishing to leave your people in SoHo without your guiding presence, but I assure you, this won't take long and is extremely important," he paused, his mouth slightly pursed in thought. "Do you have any other details on the killings, Inspector? Anything at all that might add to the picture that, even now, my brother and I are compiling of the murderer? Even the smallest of minutia might be of use."

Sipping his scotch, Greg thought, then shook his head. It had been a long and wearying day; he needed some hot food, a civilised cup of tea and an early night. Failing that, then sitting in a luxurious basement den with a decent scotch and a real fire at his toes made up for a little of it. "Without meaning to be disrespectful," he sat up a little. "You probably already know a damn sight more than I do, so how about a bit of a _quid pro quo?_ " he looked interested. "While I know Sherlock here can probably work out how many breaths the killer took while he was doing the deed based on the number of footprints in the dust or the number of dead flies under the window or something, I also know that anyone with enough pull to have the Home Secretary to get the Chief Commissioner on the blower simply to gain unfettered access to a new crime scene, has to be a pretty heavy hitter in his own right," he said, squinting at Mycroft with his right eye. "I'm merely a copper in a bunch of other coppers," he added, leaning back into the meltingly-soft chair, tasting his scotch again. "How's about you tell _me_ what's going on, eh? Any thoughts on why this killer is doing things this way? Other than killing for kicks, we can't even be sure there's a real motive; there's a pattern for sure, but there's also no rationale that we can see."

There was a pregnant pause in which each of the three men considered what not to say.

"Mycroft is a two-thousand year old vampire and someone's out to expose his secret, wreck his department and endanger the safety of Great Britain," Sherlock leaned forward, linked his fingers and looked impatient. "Which provides a decent motive at the very least."

It was as well that he no longer required air in his lungs to remain conscious these days, Mycroft realised, setting his half-empty glass carefully down onto the solid wooden surface before him. Nor had the centuries-long practice of maintaining a perfectly unruffled expression on his face regardless of provocation been in the least wasted. Ensconced behind his great writing desk, he neither gasped nor frowned, but smiled politely and with some considerable charm. Inwardly, he was debating whether to fume at Sherlock's child-like outburst or arrange for his temporary sectioning.

"My brother will enjoy his little joke, Inspector," Mycroft's _savoir-faire_ was impeccable and his fatigued expression utterly fitting. "And now that we have had Sherlock's opinion of the situation, perhaps you might feel able to share your own understanding of events?"

Giving the younger Holmes a stare of irritated incomprehension, Greg focused his attention on the older sibling. "We're only just beginning to put the pattern of the killings together to be honest," he shrugged wearily. "Clearly, there are repetitions of the actual murder scene which are important to the killer, but the two victims, the two _er_... _complete_ victims we've been able to identify so far seem to have no connection other than they were both night-workers. The victim in the factory was a security guard at a blood-bank in the West End, and the second one, in the old church, worked at a van-hire company. We have no idea as yet who the identifiable victim is from SoHo, and, of course," Lestrade sounded disgusted. "The identities of the dismembered victims are completely unknown to us at this time, although we're doing our best to follow up on any recent missing persons reports," he shook his head slowly. "It's not a lot of progress, I'm afraid."

"But I've just _told_ you ..." Sherlock began, halting abruptly when Mycroft raised a hand.

" _Enough_ , brother," the older man's tone was cool and his eyes hard. "You do your case no good this way."

"Yeah, Sherlock," Lestrade gave him an accusing glance. "Stop acting the prat; it's not funny."

"My brother is correct in that the motive may, in some way, be intended to destabilise law and order in London and thus create an impossible security situation and thus affecting me more or less indirectly," Mycroft leaned forward and linked his own fingers, well aware that Sherlock was staring at him with daggers in his eyes. "And I shall be instigating my own inquiries on this matter, of course. Should I uncover any useful information, Inspector, you may be sure that I'll send it on to you post-haste."

"You mean you're going to call the national security agencies?" Greg was mildly surprised. If MI5 and MI6 were going to be involved, then there really was something big in the wind.

"My own inquiries, Inspector," Mycroft smiled politically. "In my own way."

"Fair enough," Lestrade got to his feet. "Thanks for the scotch, but I've got to get back to my mob before they think I've knocked off and left them to it for the night. I'll see myself out," he added as Mycroft rose from his chair.

Less than five seconds after the sound of the rising lift echoed quietly through the panelled wood walls, Mycroft turned towards Sherlock with a face of fury.

"And what the _bloody hell_ did you think _that_ would accomplish?" he demanded angrily, slamming a palm hard down on the top of the desk. "Enough of the truth is generally too much in such an instance as _this_ ," he growled. "Lestrade is not stupid!" He stalked over to the fire, then turned. "Why, Sherlock? _Why?_ "

"And when were you going to tell me about _Kit?_ " Sherlock leaped to his feet, his expression equally livid. "Or did you think that I'd simply not be able to see that my adoptive mother is _dying_ , Mycroft? _That she won't see the end of the year?_ Did you consider me so useless and so immature that you couldn't bring me into the situation? Or did you really feel I have _no_ place in Kit's life anymore, _even the small portion she has_ _left?!_ "

His eyes were wild and his face pale and Mycroft's anger had nowhere to go.


	12. in which cleverness abounds.

 

Knocking back a scotch and then quickly pouring herself a second, Andrea leaned blearily against the window frame in her Canary Wharf flat. Looking out over the brightly-lit darkness of London, her thoughts returned yet again to the ghastly images that had filled her sight less than an hour before. So grotesque and yet somehow she had seen through the wanton violence and deliberate bloodlust into a kind of logic, as if the killer had been enacting some bizarre, ritualistic routine. There was method in what she had witnessed, she was sure, though what she _wasn't_ sure about was what it was she'd seen that had given her such an idea. Perhaps it would come to her later, after she'd had time to digest ... everything.

Sipping the second measure of spirit more carefully, staring out across Limehouse Reach and back up the Thames towards the City, Andrea found her thoughts wandering inevitably towards Mycroft Holmes. Especially the Mycroft Holmes that had made himself apparent this evening. Not that he'd really ever had an opportunity to behave like that before, not that she'd ever _needed_ his support like that before, but she thought it strange, nevertheless. Strange that a man of whom she had been told such awful things, a man with no reason other than basic civilised behaviour, should pay such attention to the welfare of an underling. A well-paid and personal underling to be sure, but still. Nothing in the man's behaviour tonight had gelled at all with the personality she'd been told to expect, that she'd been _warned_ to expect. Something didn't fit somewhere and the situation felt just ... wrong. Chewing her bottom lip in thought, she found herself in the bathroom; clearly, her subconscious knew what she wanted to do far better than her waking mind. In seconds, she'd reached into the secret wall-cavity and removed the heavy yellow envelope. Back in the darkened lounge, Andrea sorted through the pile of old photographs and official documents, until she found the most recent of the several hand-penned letters.

 _My darling Tsarevna_ ... _forgive me, forgive me for making you the one to right the terrible wrong that was done to your mama and papa. You had not yet been born when your loving father was forced to his untimely death by the vile executioner who was also directly responsible for the final illness and unhappy demise of your beloved mother, my only and much-missed daughter. The man responsible for all the suffering you have endured and no doubt will continue to endure, sits at the very heart of Britain's power. I am too old and too weak to strike at him directly, but you are young and strong and clever ..._

Dropping the letter in her lap and finishing the scotch, Andrea looked thoughtful. Her grandfather was quite correct; she was young and strong. She was quite clever, too. There were things here that made no sense, that spoke of two different perceptions of truth. Finishing the last of the scotch, she realised it was up to her to discover which was which.

###

Closing his eyes, Mycroft exhaled gustily. They were so clever, the both of them. So intelligent and knowledgeable, so filled up with facts and the logic of things. How then, did they always seem to make such a hash of the simplest communication? How did they manage to mangle such a straightforward human act, forcing anything of personal import between them to distort and descend into angst-ridden rancour? When had the trust between them vanished? Mycroft was far too aware of his own faults to make the mistake of entirely blaming Sherlock for his outburst, but the younger man was not without his own weaknesses and flaws.

"It was Kit's choice," he murmured, opening his eyes slowly to meet the livid glare of the human he had long considered as his own child. "She made me promise not to tell you," Mycroft lifted a hand towards a still-furious Sherlock. "It was not simply to keep you in ignorance that Kit asked for this," he said. "She cares for you so deeply and she knew you would be ... upset."

"Upset?" Sherlock tilted his head sideways, a bitter cast to his features, his pale blue eyes narrowed and icy cold. " _Upset?_ " He stood so rigid and still that he seemed in physical pain. "I'm no good at dealing with this ... _stuff_ ," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Losing one mother was terrible enough ... I don't know how to lose _two_."

"My dear boy," Mycroft took a step closer. "Death is the mark of humanity," he said, gently. "The ability to die is what makes the act of living so wonderful," he added softly. "It will come to us all," he nodded soberly. "Even to me."

"But not for years," Sherlock's shocked gaze and white face burned with a sudden inexpressible fervour. "Not for a very long time," he swallowed convulsively. "You can ... you can help her," he said. "You could ..." he flapped an abstracted hand and looked away.

Understanding immediately, Mycroft exhaled hard again. He could not do what Sherlock was suggesting. In his entire existence, he had never ... never taken a life in _that_ way, never attempted to do what he was now being asked to do. It was a monstrous idea. Examining the shined toe of his shoe, he slowly shook his head. "No."

" _Why not?!_ " Sherlock crossed the distance between them in two strides. "Why can't you do it?" he demanded, staring up into Mycroft's blank face. "Based on your own experience, you _know_ it would heal Kit of all her physical debilities, it would allow her to ... _live_ ," his voice strangling into silence, Sherlock stood beside the old vampire, forlorn and seemingly bereft.

Mycroft closed his eyes once more, looking inward to find the right words to express this most critical of thoughts. "I can't," he repeated. "It would not be ... the right thing to do."

"Damn you to _hell_ , Mycroft!" Sherlock raged now, both hands clawing through his long hair. "Right or wrong doesn't matter here! It's Kit's _life_ you're dismissing so casually ... she'll _die_ , Mycroft, Kit will _die_ and you can _save_ her!" He stopped suddenly, shoulders drooping, his voice breaking at his last words. Covering his face with thin fingers, his voice was barely audible. "Please save her, Mycroft ... _please_ ... I beg you ..."

It was true. If he did to Kit what had been done to him, then she would indeed change into that which he had become all those many years ago. It was also true that the change would rid her of all her infirmities and ailments, though it would not turn back the clock; Kit would not become young again, but stay as she was now until the very last moment of her extended existence. Yet she deserved the chance, didn't she? Deserved to reap the benefits of the secret, _his secret_ , she had kept so faithfully and for so long? But she would no longer be human, and that, in itself, was a dreadful loss to ask of anyone, least of all Kit whose own humanity was magnificent and all-encompassing. Had such a choice been given to him even in the final moments of dying, Mycroft knew he would still have refused it to his last breath. He had struggled so terribly hard with his own inner demon; striven not to become the hideous creature he knew might so easily dwell within were it permitted to do so. Did he have the right to impose such a pyrrhic contest upon anyone, least of all one whom he had grown to cherish as a precious companion and friend?

Torn horribly between what he felt was the right thing to do and what was the _human_ thing to do, Mycroft sighed heavily, but made the decision regardless. It had been Kit's decision not to tell Sherlock, let it be her decision now. "If Kit wishes me to ... change ... her," he whispered. "I shall, though I have never done it before and cannot guarantee the outcome."

That there was at least some hope seemed to weaken Sherlock's already depleted strength. Placing a hand on the older man's shoulder, he lowered his head until it rested heavily against his own fingers. "Thank you," he whispered, the compromise acceptable. "It's all I would ask."

"My dear, dear boy," Mycroft's own hand crept up until he could feel the thick waves of Sherlock's hair pressed against his palm. "And people imagine you unfeeling," he murmured, wrapping his other arm around the slim torso of the younger man, embracing him fully. "Such passion, Sherlock," his words so soft as to be barely heard. "Such emotion."

A clock ticked away uncounted seconds as they stood together, taking strength from each other in a way they had not done in decades.

"Very well, then," Sherlock stood upright and stepped away, the flat of one hand dashing cursorily across both eyes. "You will speak with Kit on this matter?"

Nodding slowly, Mycroft confirmed his assent. "Or you may, if you prefer," he said. "Or you may be present when I do," he added. "I leave it to you, but remember that this must be entirely Kit's choice; the issue is not to be forced, either way."

"I'm perfectly content for you to broach the subject with her," Sherlock said, his manner suddenly brisk as he straightened his suit jacket beneath the long coat. "Just ... don't leave it too long," he finished. "She's very ill."

"I promise, Sherlock," Mycroft decided he would speak to Kit as soon as this present debacle had been brought under some measure of control. Which reminded him. "You said you had some information for me resulting from the tests you undertook earlier?"

Inhaling hard to clear his thoughts, Sherlock nodded. "But I need a sample from you against which to compare it," he pursed his mouth. "One thing I can say is that Lestrade's forensic people weren't entirely wrong in their analysis," he said. "It's human blood but appears to have been altered in some bizarre way and I'd like to evaluate it beside your own before I formulate any definitive conclusion," he reached into one of his coat's deep pockets, withdrawing a sealed blood-testing kit. "Now's as good a time as any ..." he paused, extracting a small tube-sealed hypodermic from the pack, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Of course," Mycroft nodded cursorily, removing his suit jacket and unfastening the cufflink on his left shirt sleeve. In seconds, he had bared his arm to reveal the median cubital vein so beloved of phlebotomists the world around.

Tapping the skin carefully, Sherlock noted the pallor of both flesh and the vein itself, almost as if the man that Mycroft had once been had since faded into himself to become some form of bleached-out mannequin. It was difficult to see the best place to insert the needle.

"Allow me," Mycroft took the hypo in his own fingers, locating a particular spot that seemed no different to Sherlock's eyes from any other place. In moments, the sample had been taken and Mycroft handed the filled vial back.

"That must make things difficult for the medicos in those clinics you attend each year," Sherlock held the sealed sample of blood up to the light; its colour less a dark red and more a royal purple.

"The light in here is hardly conducive to medical practice," Mycroft swiftly redid his cuff, though he left the jacket where it lay. "Rarely do my doctors undertake their procedures by firelight these days," he smiled faintly.

"I need to run my tests on this sample immediately," Sherlock was already heading to the lift, when he paused. "I take it you _are_ alright with me staying at home until I can find another flat?"

Pouring himself a second glass of malt, Mycroft looked up, smiling. "You may live in any of my properties for as long as you wish," he said. "Or tell me what you want and I'll have sufficient funds made over to you within a day if you wish to purchase your own dwelling," he added. "You know that money has never been an issue, Sherlock."

Nodding as he stepped into the now-open lift, Sherlock allowed an answering smile to curve his mouth. "I'll probably see you at home later," his finger found the 'Up' button.

Saluting him with his glass, Mycroft waited until the sound of the lift had entirely died away before he took the seat closest to the fire, stretching out his legs until he could feel a heat on the outside of his body that matched the internal glow from the scotch. He sighed lengthily. What the hell was he going to do if Kit said yes?

###

Arriving back at the SoHo cordon, Lestrade wondered again about the conversation he'd just had with the Holmes brothers. It had been less of a conversation, really, and more of an interrogation; he had learned nothing new. Thinking about it though, neither of the Holmes had revealed anything at all, other than Sherlock's farcical outburst about Mycroft being a vampire. _Typical_. The boy swore up and down he wasn't using these days, but any more little episodes like that one, Greg thought, and the drug situation would be revisited. Besides, he smiled grimly as he left his car, walking back towards the garishly-lit crime scene, Mycroft Holmes, with his precise suits, umbrella and swanky government cars did not exactly seem the type to go for florid opera cloaks and moonlit graveyards. _Mad_. The whole bloody family.

"Same as before, Gov," Sally Donovan baled him up as soon as he stepped inside the premises. "Same MO, same victim profile that we can see so far, exact same crime scene layout," she scowled. "Though this one is a little more ... _ah_ ..."

"Theatrical?" Lestrade nodded as he walked deeper into the murder room. "Yeah, I noticed that earlier. It's as if the killer's trying to show us something; a pattern or something, maybe."

"Either way, we've got another two corpses to identify," Donovan sighed and puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled. "As if there wasn't already enough to do from the last two."

"Anything on CCTV this time?" Greg was ever hopeful, especially since these murders hadn't taken place in abandoned factories out in the middle of nowhere, but bang smack in the middle of a bustling city. There had to be cameras everywhere.

"Checking now, Boss," Sally handed his her phone, its screen lit by a photograph. "Know what these are?" she pointed to a series of small round dots on the floor. "They're over there, she indicated with a bent thumb. "By the far door."

Swapping his gaze from the photo to the actual scene itself, Lestrade narrowed his eyes, squinting in the brilliance of the industrial lights whiting-out the entire ground floor of the building. For some reason, the dots looked almost familiar, as if he'd seen them somewhere else really recently, somewhere ... He shook his head, surprised that Sherlock hadn't said anything, since he would obviously have seen them before anyone else had. Dots were dots; they could be anything. "What are they?"

"They're also in the photos from the other two killings, sir, though we could barely see them there before," Donovan sounded serious. "These ones are much more obvious. It could be important. I've asked for three wall-screens to be put up in the incident room so we can view all the recorded images from all three sites digitally and simultaneously," she said.

"Then let's see what else all three sites have in common apart from the obvious, shall we?" Greg looked thoughtful. "Are we done here for now?"

"Yup. Forensics have almost finished and then we can get the bodies shifted," Sally peered around, checking that everyone was clearing things up and away. "What a bloody mess," she shook her head and looked sour.

"All part of the job, Sal," Lestrade watched as several officers made their way to the street exit carrying various large sealed containers. An ambulance awaited their burdens, though there was nothing now that any human office could do that would aid either of the two victims. It was all down to him and his team now to find and apprehend the killer, and they would. He felt his mouth settle into a hard line; they had to. "Let's go watch some TV."

###

The main pathology lab at Barts was brightly lit and still relatively bustling when he arrived; it was early as far as the hospital's shifts went, Sherlock realised. Not yet nine. It might be a while before sufficient people left to give him a much-desired privacy in order to get on with his critical comparative tests in peace and quiet. Privacy, in this particular instance, was of paramount importance, despite his earlier announcement to the inspector. Of course, Graham Lestrade wouldn't have believed that Mycroft was a vampire; he'd expected no other response. However, it had reinforced the knowledge that the police were _still_ only interested in a logical, empirical result, not one they'd have to expand their narrow little minds to encompass. He sighed in mild disgust. So _pedestrian_ , all of them. It was a wonder that Mycroft hadn't snapped and slaughtered the entire Metropolitan police force decades ago.

Looking around, Sherlock realised that the main lab wasn't going to clear for him at any convenient point in the near future, short of an unexpected fire alarm sending everyone outside ... though that _was_ a thought ... he'd either have to contain his impatience or risk discovery. Deciding that neither option suited, he chose a third alternative which meant locating another lab. Barts was a teaching hospital; there were labs of all shapes and sizes all over the place, though not all with the equipment he needed tonight. He also knew there was a much smaller and very well equipped lab just along the corridor ... Ducking his head so as not to alert anyone to his presence as he passed by the half-glassed doors, he walked swiftly down the long, featureless passageway until he reached a large and very solid door set deeply into the wall. Not only was the lab entrance deliberately set away from any of the other labs down here, it was unambiguously evident why.

_BIOSAFETY LABORATORY: LEVEL TWO. Pathogenic Agent Protocols Enacted. DO NOT ENTER without appropriate authority and protective clothing._

The door was locked but though of higher security, it was a relatively standard disk tumbler lock. While it offered a bit of a challenge, it was nothing he hadn't overcome several times before. Slipping through first one and then a second set of airtight doors into the darkened room beyond, Sherlock took note of the lab's layout; the pungent burn of floor and hard-surface disinfectant in his nose, the sharp lines of white benchtops and cabinetry. Four stainless steel refrigerators and four glass-fronted biosafety cabinets stood equidistant around the room, with steel benchtops, several capacious steel sinks and scrub-room facilities in between. The whole place was dutifully aseptic and as sterile as it might be outside of operating theatre conventions. _Perfect_. While anyone else might have thought twice and then perhaps a few more times before breaking into a secure biohazard area, Sherlock knew the worst thing he could contract in a Level Two lab was probably a case of the measles. And since he'd caught measles the very first week he'd attended prep school, he wasn't terribly bothered by the notion.

Switching on a small steel angle-lamp in the corner least likely to be noticed from the corridor, he opened his VAIO notebook to the blood-testing results spreadsheet he'd been developing for several years, using his own blood as a standard control. His eyes, as they always did, glanced briefly down and across the results taken from samples while he was experimenting with a variety of drugs, both hard and soft, until, of course, it was no longer an experiment, but an addiction. It had been tougher to break that cycle than even he had anticipated, but it was in the past and he had no need to revisit those particular experiences. Yet still he looked, every time.

Scrolling back up to the more recent test results, he found himself staring at the biochemical analysis he'd managed to complete on the small sample of the killer's saliva Lestrade had been able to provide. Testing saliva wasn't the best way of determining an individual's blood makeup, but since it contained a relatively high percentage of the same proteins as blood, it would do. Removing the vial containing Mycroft's blood sample from his pocket, he paused, holding it in his fingers. Based on the distinctive pallor of Mycroft's skin, Sherlock anticipated red blood cell aplasia at the very least.

It was what he had already found in the killer's saliva.

Locating a convenient Microhematocrit Centrifuge and a coagulation analyser, Sherlock assembled a rack of test tubes and a box of sterilised pipettes. Hunting around the cupboards until he had ample supplies of control solution, proteolytic enzyme gel and a variety of plasma and serum separators, he looked around for the nearest microscope, smiling when he saw the hospital had done the decent thing and lashed out on several of Nikon's latest fly-eye CFI technology. _Christmas_. Knowing that little or no sound would emanate into the corridor and that the low-level lighting would not be seen through the glass-panelled door, Sherlock settled down to explore exactly what was in this blood that made Mycroft immortal.

###

Though it was only a little after ten, Ellis was strangely tired. However, considering everything that had happened since the afternoon, it was probably little wonder she felt weary. Since she'd left her work earlier than normal, she wanted to get in well before her usual time in the morning to make the time up, so an early night seemed on the cards. She yawned. All that champagne and then the brandy that Mycroft had given her ... hardly surprising she felt ready to sleep. Working through her nightly ablutions, her bed was so soft and welcoming that she didn't even feel the desire to read as she normally did. Instead, she turned off the light and rested her warmed cheek against the deliciously cool cotton of her pillow and stretched herself languorously down inside her beautifully soft, warm bed.

And was instantly wide awake.

The cool comfort of her pillow heated swiftly, just as the smooth caress of her sheets turned clingy and uncomfortably hot. She rolled first onto one side and then the other after making a determined effort to blank everything and allow creeping tendrils of sleep into her mind. Following several long minutes lying on her back staring unblinkingly up towards the darkened ceiling of her bedroom, she sighed loudly. Sitting up, she thumped her pillow into a less annoying profile, before lying back down, fingers linked across her stomach. Determined not to sit up reading for an hour simply to meet her brain's expectation of a normal bedtime, Ellis found her thoughts running through the great room that housed Mycroft's library.

That it had been a ballroom at one time seemed likely. The generous expanse of floorspace and the general height of the room suggested little else. The grand nature of the long stained-glass windows down the far wall suggested the room had been purpose-built with the house and nobody would have designed such a room just for a library, would they? It would have to have been created when the house was originally built as the was no sign that anything in the room was modern, nor any signs of remodelling. She was an expert on the antiquity of things and in her estimation, that room was as authentic as the rest of the structure, she'd swear to it. It just didn't strike her as the type of a house to have a ballroom of that _size_. Nothing in the rest of the residence was anywhere near the same kind of scale; the dining room table for instance, couldn't have seated more than twenty at most. And while that was a very decent sized table on which to have dinner, twenty people certainly weren't enough for a _ball_. Something felt out of whack, although it had to be said that Britons were nothing if not eccentric in the design of their homes.

Which made her wonder about the kind of a family who had lived in such a wonderful house. How far back did the Holmes line stretch and how come such an obviously important genealogical line had petered out, leaving only Mycroft and Sherlock as the final members? Based on the portraits alone, Ellis could place Mycroft's ancestors back by at least four hundred years without trying terribly hard. Strange that all the ancestors looked like him and not Sherlock. There were no portraits of the women in the family either, which, she had to admit, was actually pretty odd. The last of a line. It was terribly sad, but given the family's clear propensity towards military service, it would not have been uncommon for all the sons to rush off as officers in Britain's imperial wars. Primogeniture was a relatively recent innovation in British inheritance law, only fully embraced after the Great War. Therefore, there may have been few male Holmes left to inherit the estate, including Mycroft's magnificent library collection. Ellis yawned and closed her eyes to better recall the magnificent white Pentelic marble lion she had leaned against, so reminiscent of the Narnia stories. Such a bravura piece of sculpture ... such pure, white translucency; she fancied she could almost hear music playing around it ...

"I believe this dance is mine?" Mycroft spoke quietly as Ellis blinked her eyes open again.

"I'm hardly dressed for dancing," she protested, even as she allowed him to take her hand and lead her into the centre of the now completely empty ballroom where wonderful music played, though there was no visible orchestra. Of course, Mycroft was perfectly attired in formal black tie and evening clothes; the elegant and expensive cut of his dinner suit nothing less than she would have expected. The strains of a gay Viennese waltz filled the enormous space, and she realised her bare feet were moving easily across the polished floor, even as she looked down and saw she was still wearing her old cotton pyjamas. Such an outfit, though perfectly respectable for sleeping, was hardly appropriate for a Grand Ball.

"Don't worry," Mycroft whispered in her ear. "Humans only ever see what they want to see," he said, a smile in his voice. "And you look so incredibly beautiful tonight."

Glancing up at her dance partner, she was drawn in by the deepest of deep blue eyes as he held her captive within his arms and his regard. There was something shockingly intimate about the way they were dancing, even though there was clear space between their bodies and the music swirled them around and around ...

"I appreciate the compliment," Ellis gasped as she was whirled around in a particularly vigorous circle that almost had her feet leave the floor. "Compared to you however, I am the most dowdy of creatures," she batted at a lock of her hair which had fallen into her eyes.

"Dowdy?" Mycroft danced them in front of a massive gold-framed mirror resting against one of the walls, the mirror's height easily that of a house.

Ellis sucked in a shocked breath. In the crystal-clear reflection, she saw the two of them, clasped together in a classic dancers' pose. Mycroft, as she had already seen, was immaculately dressed ... though as she stared, it seemed his formal black evening clothes had developed a distinctly military air, with the appearance of soldierly epaulettes and stylised gold embroidery at both cuff and the stiff, upright collar.

But it was her own appearance that truly limited her ability to breath freely. Instead of an old pair of Marks & Spencer flannelette pyjamas featuring highly scenic views of Cuba, she was wearing ... no, not wearing ...

She was _adorned._ Gowned in the most extraordinary ball gown she had ever seen, with a fabulously elaborate hunter green silk brocade over a dark gold gauze underskirt, the long tight sleeves covered her arms but left her décolletage and upper back entirely bare. Corseted tight at the waist, the gown flared dramatically out into a wide, billowing skirt that seemed to drift and flow as she moved. And her hair ... No longer falling into her eyes, but coiled and shining in an ornate red-gold chignon, held in place by three long peacock feathers. Dark green silk dancing shoes wrapped her feet in blissful comfort.

"I brought this for you," Mycroft said, dangling a necklace of heavy antique gold and emeralds. "It's from my collection."

"Is there anything you _don't_ have in your collection?" Ellis smiled and laughed as Mycroft began producing ancient gold coins from his pocket and a fabulous blue-white diamond from inside his sleeve ... which was no longer black, but now a rich, heavy scarlet, the colour of a Victorian officer's regimental uniform. In fact, his dark evening clothes had been entirely replaced by that of a high-ranking officer, complete with sword and greatcoat slung carelessly around his shoulders and a polished, white-plumed Guard's helmet under one arm.

The music had faded away and they were no longer dancing but rather standing beneath one of the ballroom's enormous and brilliantly-lit chandeliers, staring at one another.

"Why did you leave all those old uniforms and hats at the museum in the middle of the night?" Ellis was the first to speak. "I can't imagine it was anyone but you who might have done it, you see."

"Infinite history, finite storage," he smiled down at her, almost joyfully. "Something had to give," he shrugged lightly. "The result has been most propitious."

"You've changed," Ellis shook her head, smiling back. "You're different tonight."

"I never change," Mycroft stepped closer. "I am as constant as the heavens." There was a full moon in the darkness over his left shoulder. "Just look at all my portraits."

"They all belong to you?" Ellis found she was whispering as he loomed above her, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.

"They are all mine," he nodded, leaning in so close that she could almost feel the movement of his lips as he spoke. "And you are mine, too," he added softly.


	13. in which things are realised.

 

When Mycroft didn't arrive at his usual time Kit realised that this was probably going to be one of his later-working evenings, which suited her very nicely. There were a few things she wanted to do in peace and quiet and without any interruption of the Holmes variety.

Placing several small piles of papers on the kitchen table, she perched a pair of reading glasses on her nose and took up a pen. The documentation spread out before her were sets of legal papers, each group requiring her signature; original and copy. Picking up the two thickest documents, she read the title to herself, though she knew exactly what was in the papers; _Last Will and Testament of Kitta Regnes Penderic_. Scanning through the whole thing one last time, she initialled at the bottom of each page and then wrote her full signature at the end on both copies. This was the finished version, not the draft she'd authorised her solicitors to prepare several weeks before. With a final flourish, the deed was done. There were several ancillary papers to sign, but she got through those in under a minute. Sighing in some relief now that everything had been taken care of, she divided the papers into two large envelopes. On one, she wrote the name and address of her solicitor; she'd leave it propped up on the table near the front door. A habit of many years now, Mycroft would know that it needed posting. The other she'd leave on the dressing table in her bedroom. It had Mycroft's name written across the front.

Despite the pharmacopeia she'd been taking since her diagnosis, Kit was well aware that all they had done was give her some grace-time in order to get everything properly sorted. Every day now, she felt a little more weary and a little slower. She was pleased she'd had the time to organise things the way she wanted. Everything was going to be very simple in the end; simple and of no bother to anyone. The last thing she wanted was to make a fuss, or to have Mycroft or Sherlock upset for no reason. All her financial matters had been taken care of, all her tasks were done, all arrangements arranged. Kitta sighed, satisfied. She could live each day now as something unique in itself, without fear or favour of whatever it might bring.

Pulling an unopened bottle of Mycroft's favourite and horrendously expensive vodka from the freezer, she poured herself a small cocktail and sat back down at the table with a soft smile on her face.

###

The lab was an absolute shambles, but Sherlock was far too engrossed in his task to notice. As long as there was clean glassware for him to use, an unending supply of chemicals and solutions for the multiple levels of his experiments and no interruptions, he would simply continue until he finished. _The number of_ _haemoglobin variants was astonishing_! Sitting back in one of the chairs and dragging fingers through his tangled hair, he felt in desperate need of a cigarette, though he had none with him. Half-deciding to leave the hospital in search of the nearest all-night supermarket, Sherlock knew that to do so would be tempting fate perhaps a fraction too much. Nobody had bothered him thus far, but any additional egress and ingress in the lab area might be pushing it. He didn't need a smoke that badly. It could wait.

Leaning back over the spreadsheet on his laptop, he rubbed his eyes and stared hard at the rows of data he'd already been able to compile and verify. Considering he was a chemist rather than a _biochemist_ , he felt his work was still good enough to stand on its own merits. The test results from the sample he obtained from Mycroft were beyond incredible; it was almost as if the blood had a life of its own. The way it enclosed, subsumed and totally overwhelmed any normal human cells it touched was little short of miraculous. He had seen it with his own eyes, using several ampoules of his own blood as a control. Instead of the usual four genes coding Mycroft's alpha globin, there now seemed to be _five_ , and somehow even the basic amino acids that made up the blood proteins had been mutated. There was a complete muddle of recessive alleles, though none of them appeared to be damaging or dangerous to the carrier, something he'd never seen before. God only knew what that would mean if Mycroft were capable of siring offspring. It was as if the vampire blood had been burned clean of anything that might weaken its efficacy. Other than the fact that it cannibalised normal blood cells, such changes didn't appear to cause any immediate problems for the host, as the old vampire appeared entirely healthy, for a vampire's given value of healthy, at least.

But it was the speed and elegance with which Mycroft's blood simply garrotted every normal human cell in its path that had his full admiration. Such a brutally successful process spoke volumes about the longevity of the vampire as a species. No wonder Mycroft never aged; as long as he maintained sufficient 'supplies' he could probably last indefinitely. If his vampiric blood-enhancement process was properly analysed and synthesised, there could be a cure mechanism here for any number of currently untreatable conditions. If only there was _some_ way to protect the human cells before the vampire cells colonised and annihilated them. The possibilities were _amazing_ ...

Managing to control his enthusiasm just long enough, Sherlock was able to run a comparative analysis of blood proteins between Mycroft's blood and the micro-sample of saliva that Lestrade had managed to obtain for him. Though there were some very specific similarities, the samples were subtly different. It was not Mycroft's saliva on the neck of the victims, but as the Met's own pathology experts had already stated, neither was it human saliva. In less than two seconds, a series of logical deductions made themselves inescapably apparent.

... The killer really was a vampire.

... Mycroft was not the vampire killer.

... There was at least one other vampire in London.

... Mycroft was being set up by someone not only as physically strong as himself, but also potentially as clever and possibly with similar financial backing.

... Mycroft's professional destruction was not the primary objective here; this act of incrimination directed at the old vampire's deepest and most private secret. This was _personal_.

... The killer would therefore not be satisfied with merely ruining Mycroft professionally, but would not stop until Mycroft himself was destroyed.

... Another vampire was currently in London with plans to destroy ... probably _kill_ Mycroft.

... Anyone around Mycroft was therefore in mortal danger.

" _Kit!_ " Sherlock's eyes flew wide open as understanding materialised.

###

"Look," Greg scrolled the visual recording back a few seconds and pointed. "There," he walked right up to the screen on the far left of the three. "Just there along the side of the passageway."

They were well into the second hour of analysing the video-recordings made of the three crime scenes, a copy of the Soho site becoming available from forensics a short while earlier. Donovan had made sure they were viewed in order across the triple screens. On the left was the footage from the old furniture factory in Hammersmith. In the middle was the derelict church in Paddington, and to the right was the scene from that night's incident in the empty massage-parlour. Lestrade and his sergeant had been peering at strange and disjointed snips of recording that had only just been edited together to form a single cohesive recording for their review. It wasn't the easiest thing to look at for any length of time and it was already late. Glancing down at her wristwatch, Sally saw that midnight was not terribly far away.

And yet the mystery of the dots had called to them both until they had determined to see if they had been present at all three murder scenes. With his final observation, Greg had discovered that indeed they had. There were dots everywhere.

"What is hell's name are they?" he sat back, leaning against a long table, arms folded and an expression of furious thought creasing his face as he stared motionless at the screens.

"And not only what are they, but why are they there in such a ... formation?" unconsciously, Sally mirrored her DI's position.

"Sherlock would be able to tell us in one breath, I'm sure," Greg squinted. "Some kind of shoe heel?" he pondered aloud. "A stiletto?"

Shaking her head, Donovan frowned. "It's just a bit too even and too round to be a proper stiletto heel," she murmured. "But it might be something the killer had on his shoe," she paused, peering at the details on the screen. "Though only on one foot, apparently."

"An artificial foot of some description?" Greg looked sideways at her. "Some kind of shoe brace?"

"Not with that on the base, no," Sally shook her head. "Too small to be stable," she said. "Maybe a walking stick, hey?"

A killer with a walking stick? "One of the weapons used in the murders, do you think?" Lestrade walked closer to the screen until his eyes were filled with the highly magnified dots.

"Nah," Sally shook her head again. "There's no blood in any of the dots in any of the three sites," she said. "If it had been a weapon, there'd be blood spatter around them somewhere."

"Then if not a weapon, could it really be some kind of walking stick or cane?" Greg was puzzled. The notion of such a brutal killer requiring any kind of walking aid didn't ring quite true.

"Not sure it's a big enough dot to be the end of a cane," Donovan stood at Greg's side, peering just as hard at the screen as he was. She tipped her head sideways as it that might help see the marks more clearly. "Looks a bit too small for the tip of a walking stick; they're usually much heavier and they usually have a wide rubber fitting on the end, don't they?"

Greg nodded thoughtfully. "Then if not a stick ... what?" The dots still seemed awfully familiar; he knew he'd seen similar marks elsewhere ... but where?

Catching her breath, Sally froze for a moment. "They look like ..." she stepped back in order to see all three screens together. "They really _do_ look like ..."

"What?" Lestrade turned to stare at the growing expression on his sergeant's face.

"The tip of an umbrella," Sally folded her arms again, nodding confidently. "They're too fine to be anything else," she added. "And not a woman's brolly, either," she waved at the screens. "That's the fine metal tip of a man's umbrella," she spoke confidently now. "I'm positive of it."

The steel ferule of a man's umbrella? Unbidden, Greg's thoughts immediately veered to Mycroft Holmes; the man had carried a long black umbrella with him everywhere he went ... though there must be thousands of men in London who carried long umbrellas with them. It was practically a national dress-code; dark suits and black brollies for the well-dressed gent in the City. _Mycroft is a two-thousand year old vampire and someone's out to expose his secret_ ... Sherlock could be an unending prat at times, but he didn't usually make ridiculous statements without having some reason to make them, if only to mock the resultant sense of disbelief such absurdity caused in others. But he hadn't mocked anyone, had he? His brother had cut him off before there'd been any chance for the younger Holmes to say anything else. Clearly, Mycroft wasn't _really_ a vampire; everyone knew the undead were figments of some nineteenth-century poppy smoker's imagination ... but Sherlock had sounded extremely earnest when he'd made that laughable statement, hadn't he? And Mycroft did carry an umbrella around with him everywhere he went, didn't he? Greg pushed his bottom lip out and folded his arms in thought. _And why had those two thoughts popped right into his head at the same time?_

"What do you know about Mycroft Holmes?" he asked slowly.

Sally turned her head away from the screens to look at him. "Freak's big brother?" she asked. "Not much. I think I saw him waiting inside his big flashy car one night, but I've never actually met the man."

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded slowly, remembering. "It _was_ at night, wasn't it?" he pushed his lower lip out a bit further. "I talked to the man at his club this evening," he said. "He's a bit smooth."

"Yeah, well ... Freak's smooth too, until he opens his great big mouth and terrifies people," Sally made a face. "Honestly, I've no idea why you let him hang around the squad at all," she said. "He gives me the willies, to be honest."

Greg shrugged. "We've had this conversation before," he said. "Sherlock Holmes may well have walked on the dark side of the street in the past, but he's a bloody genius when it comes to seeing things that nobody else can see, and making sense of things nobody else can understand."

Turning her eyes back to the three screens, Sally made a nondescript noise and waved generally at the three screens. "He didn't seem to have spotted the dots though, did he?" she asked. "And if he's so bloody brilliant, you'd have thought he'd have been the first to mention them for what they are."

_Yeah. Sherlock would usually have done that, wouldn't he? He would have been all over the fact and made damn sure everybody knew it._

Inhaling slowly through his nose, Greg made a mental note to keep an eye open the next time he saw Mycroft Holmes with his umbrella. It would be interesting to see what sort of trail he might leave behind him. "Apart from the dots," he said. "What else is the same in the three scenes?"

Leaning over to pick up a printed sheet, Donovan cleared her throat. "There are no fresh fingerprints, or at least, none that are liftable. The factory and the church were too open to the elements to get much of anything other than blood-types, although the Soho place is covered in prints, though probably none of them belonging to the killer. Forensics are eliminating the prints right now," Sally paused, turning the page of the report. "The three chairs are all different, but they are all wood and they are all _old_ ; pre-1950s according to the style and manufacturing details. Forensics are testing the wood to see if they were maybe stored together at any time. There's a kind of fungus that colonises wood when it rests directly on any damp surface. If all three chairs have the same levels of the same strain of fungus ..." Sally looked up and shrugged. "Not that that gives us much, but at least we know the killer's got some sort of stash of props he keeps somewhere."

_A safe storage facility somewhere with easy access to all three murder sites ... somewhere nobody would think to look ... somebody no-one would think to question ..._

"I want to have another look at the wounds on the three complete victims," Greg's brain was formulating some kind of an idea, though he wasn't sure yet what it might be. "Put them up on the screens, will you?"

Several seconds later and three ghastly images filled the wide screen. At first, it was unclear exactly what kind of wound it was. There were two large roundish puncture-marks about two inches apart on the right side of each victim's neck. According to the autopsy reports, the wounds in each case had been made directly into the carotid artery. The significant amount of bruising surrounding the bites bore witness to the fact that the punctures had been made while the victim was still living. The holes looked horrifically deep and unforgiving. Immediately beneath each set of punctures was a cruel graze line where the skin had been abraded as if scored by something sharp and rough.

"If that really were the bite of a vampire," Donovan exposed her upper cuspids as she unrealisingly mimed a biting attack. "Then the rough bit beneath the two holes would be where ..." she stopped, looking faintly ill. "It's where the killer would have held the victim immobile with his lower teeth," she said. "It really does look like how I'd imagine a vampire-bite to look, Boss."

"We got the tox-screens back for them all yet?" Lestrade rubbed one of his own canines with the ball of his thumb; his tooth was pointy, like everyone else's. But not sharp, not really. Biting through human flesh, even relatively thin stuff, as at the site of the punctures, was not an easy thing to do. Human skin was pretty tough stuff, one of the reasons that surgeons used very sharp, very thin scalpels. "To be able to make those sort of holes means that either the person making them has an extremely strong jaw and teeth, as well as being strong enough to hold down a full-grown man. Either that, or the victims were subdued in some other way."

Scanning down a closely printed page in first one and then a second folder, Sally looked back up. "Still waiting on results for the Soho killings, but neither the Hammersmith nor the Paddington victims had anything in their systems, were not habitual drug-users, nor showed any sign of any form of chemical or narcotic influence," she shook her head and looked up from the report. "What about the killer? Maybe he was high on meth or something?"

"Nah," it was Greg's turn to shake his head. "Anyone that far gone on methamphetamines would be so far out of their skulls, there's no way they'd be able to set out such a deliberately contrived scene."

_Unless there were two of them ..._

"Unless there was more than one perpetrator," Donovan scowled horribly at the images on the screens, as she seemed to read his mind. "It took a real whack-job to do this, however he ended up killing them."

"Anything more from forensics about the killer?" Greg reached over to flip open the paper file. He already knew what was in there, but he kept hoping it would eventually make more sense if he kept looking at the report.

"Nothing new that I know of," Sally stretched. "Not until the results come back on the bodies from Soho. The lab's got one of those new-fangled three-D printers and they're going to see if they can scan the bite wounds and print them out so we'll have a profile of the teeth that did it," she added. "Assuming it actually _was_ teeth, of course."

"Yeah," Lestrade flipped the file closed again. This wasn't going anywhere. "Let's call it a night then," he said. "Go and get some sleep and I'll see you back here around ten-ish, if that suits."

Grinning, Sally reached for her long coat. "A lie-in?" she rolled her eyes. "Wonders will never cease."

"Less lip from the rank and file, if you don't mind," Greg shrugged into his own thick overcoat as they headed to the door. Switching the lights off, he realised they were probably the only ones left on this floor. It was strangely silent and for the first time, the shadows seemed vaguely alarming and unsettling. He shivered. This case was giving him the heebie-jeebies. He hoped they'd have something fresh to go on in the morning.

###

In the middle of the night and after spending an unusually restless hour confirming she really wasn't going to be able to sleep, Andrea decided to make use of her latest bumped-up security-level for reasons other than her work. She'd resisted the temptation to do this before now, knowing that any activities on her part would be logged somewhere and might even get back to Mycroft at some point. But as she had lain in her sumptuous bed, staring out over her balcony into the darkness at her sumptuous view, she realised that, one way or another, she was going to have to get to the bottom of this thing with her parents. While it felt wrong to question her grandfather's sworn statements and all the evidence he'd felt necessary to send her, she had been trained at university to ask questions and Holmes was training her to ask even more and, even more importantly, to ask them the way _he_ did. The man almost never looked at things face on, but came at them obliquely, looking for insignificant details that did not lie perfectly straight, anything that might suggest the slightest hint of falseness. She realised she had been wrong to accept all the details her grandfather had claimed were gospel without checking for herself; she was a grown woman and no longer had any excuse to accept information in the manner of a child. For the first time since beginning her work with Mycroft Holmes, Andrea felt she was beginning to actually fit the role for which she had been selected and in some ways, it would be a loss if it were to end. Either way though, she needed to make up her own mind on what had happened in the past, and how that knowledge would carry her into the future. She owed it to herself to discover the truth, and her improved security clearance was about to make that desire a reality.

Moving into the living room and opening her specially shielded laptop, she opened a website that looked very much like the main MoD launch page. Entering her basic identification and password, Andrea was taken not, as any outsider might have expected, into an MoD departmental section, but somewhere much more specialised. First, however, it took her to a second, extraordinarily encrypted logon facility. If she paused fractionally too long between keystrokes, she'd be logged out. If she mis-keyed even a single stroke, she'd be logged out. Two forced logouts and a silent alarm would be sent to departmental security who would track the location of her laptop. They would also attempt to initiate contact with her using one of several coded questions. If she was unavailable to respond, responded incorrectly or if her laptop suddenly became inoperative, security personnel from MI5 would be dispatched to her last known location as a matter of urgency.

Thus, Andrea was extremely careful to enter the correct logon code in the appropriate manner at the most desirable speed; she wanted as little notice as possible taken of her activities at this point in time. For this reason, and just in case anyone was actually watching the files she accessed, she moved directly to her normal work folders, opening several documents which required a fair amount of additional editing before they were complete. She worked steadily through various surveillance reports, security clearance requests, ministerial briefings and operation status updates, completing and dispatching seven of the files, saving another two for further input. Andrea checked the time on her computer. She'd been working now for well over an hour and anybody watching the multiple files she'd already accessed should be convinced she was simply getting a head start on her work for the following day.

If she was going to break security protocols, there would be no better time to do it than now. Leaving one of the operational files open, she set it to slow scan, meaning it would gradually scroll upwards as if someone was reading it. Anyone watching would hopefully thing she was deeply engaged in that specific file and look no further. Yet what she was actually doing was interrogating the deepest and most secure departmental databases for any flags that might respond to her search parameters. _Olam, Martin; Bortzov, Irina_.

There was the usual flickering series of ten tiny green lights signifying that the search was underway ... but so slow, so _slow_ ... before two files emerged.

 _Olam, Martin_. Nationality. Date of birth. Date of death. Job title and security grade. Pay details. Lists of security checks in chronological order, the last few barely days apart. Pages and pages of projects he'd handled during his time at the MoD. There were several links to additional files; different names, the last one being that of _Redhill, Karen_. Karen Redhill? Andrea squinted at the screen. That was a new name to her. She flicked open the file to see why the name was linked to her father's record. Which was when the carefully constructed vendetta her grandfather had taken so many years to craft began to fall apart.

As she read more and more of the tersely written notes, Andrea realised that what she had been told had been the truth. _From a certain point of view_. Closing her father's file, she opened the second one, _Bortzov, Irina_ , whom she now knew also operated under the cover name of Karen Redhill. Scanning swiftly down the fairly scant details, Andrea felt her chest go tight at a link inside her mother's file. _Anna Viktoriya Andrea Irina Bortzov_. _Only known daughter_. Date of birth. Place of birth. And then ... nothing.

Andrea could barely breathe. _It was her_. She was on the database ... her actual birth name, the fact that she was the only daughter of Irina Bortzov and thus the only granddaughter of Colonel Karim Bortzov. Within four seconds, she'd closed all the open files, logged out of the database, closed her work files and shut down the laptop. Drawing her knees up tight to her chest, Andrea wrapped her arms around them, a cold shiver playing down her spine. _Oh god_. Now what was she supposed to do?

###

It was the small hours of the morning by the time Mycroft arrived home, not that time made much difference to him at all anymore. Time was something that happened to other people; he merely walked in and out of it, like dancing between slow raindrops. As he hung up his coat, he noticed the large white envelope waiting for him to post. This was the latest missive Kit had addressed to her firm of solicitors in the City, and he didn't need augmented reasoning to speculate what was inside. He sighed gloomily. Sherlock's demand that Kit be offered the chance of immortality weighed uncomfortably on his shoulders. Not that he would begrudge her the opportunity if that was what she genuinely desired. It was more that the very notion of an eternity like his own seemed false and contrived when viewed against Kit's earthy vitality. To turn her into something dark and dead like himself ... Mycroft frowned. He would honour his promise to Sherlock, but it didn't mean he had to like it. Still scowling, he walked into the deeper darkness of the house.

Other than the small night-light in the entrance hall, the house was completely black, though that was no problem to someone with his level of night-vision, even if the terrain had been unfamiliar. Deciding that perhaps a few hours on the piano might placate his unsettled thoughts, he opted first to make sure Kitta was alright as he had every night since she'd told him of her illness. Moving swiftly and silently up the main staircase he paused briefly outside her suite, listening for any sounds of movement, before opening the door to her sitting room and stepping soundlessly inside. Walking directly to the opened door of her bedroom, he peered around the edge. Though soft, he could hear Kit's regular breathing and her slowed heartbeat. A small knot of tension eased in his chest. Departing as quietly as he'd come, he made his way back down to the Drawing Room, flicking on one of the lamps as he did so.

Lifting the lid of the keyboard, he sat and considered his mood. Nothing overly zealous tonight, he felt, but rather something slower and more personal. He smiled briefly; Schubert it was, then. Leading with the second movement of the Sonata in A Major, he let the solemn tranquillity of the Andantino's opening passages wash through him. The precision of the finger work demanded his full concentration, even after all the years of practice and, for a little while, Mycroft was able to ignore everything beyond this room and this moment. Closing his eyes, he allowed all his awareness to flow into the music.

His phone buzzed in the jacket pocket against his chest and he paused, momentarily irritated at being bothered at such a late hour by a local contact. Pulling the device out into the light, he checked the screen. His eyebrows rose and his eyes narrowed at the information it displayed. _How very interesting_.

Out in the street, across the wide road and more than a dozen houses down, the piano music was inaudible to the human ear but the man sheltered in the deep shadows of a stone doorway, heard every note. At the sudden pause in the flow of the music, he smiled to himself, wondering if Holmes had sensed the presence of something dangerous. But no, that was fanciful. His prey would think itself safe. Let Mycroft Holmes play at being human just as he was playing his piano. Lifting his eyes to the near-invisible CCTV cameras which blanketed this part of Pall Mall, the man was torn between twin desires. He so very much wanted to get closer, much, much closer to the individual he had sworn with his life's blood to obliterate from the face of the earth. He wanted to hear his enemy's movements, hear him rustle around inside those fine suits he affected, hear the dry _tap tap tap_ of skin as his fingertips caressed the ivory of the piano keys. The hunger for the man's death was so thick and bitter in his mouth that he could swear it was a real taste.

But he had also promised himself a truly fitting finale to all the effort it had taken to reach this point in time; all the plans, all the hardships, the pain and anguish. He wanted to be utterly sure that before Mycroft Holmes died, he would know that everyone connected to him had died first. Died horribly, bloodily. _Agonisingly_. With this final thought in his mind, the man stepped out of the doorway and moved back along the pavement. Using a specially strengthened umbrella as a supportive cane, Daveth limped silently away into the dark of the London night.


	14. in which secrets reveal themselves.

 

Mycroft's phone had interrupted him twice during his impromptu Schubert recital. The first was with an automated message programmed to be sent directly to him if certain secured files were accessed in the ultra-classified database of which he was custodian. Of course, the majority of the Ultra files could only be accessed with his own private passkeys, knowledge of their details to be sent to three specific individuals on the event of his death or extended disappearance. However, there were several tiers of security where documents, dependent upon their level of national and international sensitivity, were kept. Two files in the second strata of the database had just now been accessed by Anthea; had been read by her, and cross-indexed with two other, ancillary files. _How very interesting_.

Remaining seated at the piano without playing, he allowed his thoughts to travel down a well-worn pathway, refreshing the information in his mind until it was as clear as if everything had occurred yesterday. He nodded to himself. Nothing that happened now would be unanticipated, but it would be intriguing to see what Anthea did next. With the slightest flicker of his eyebrows, he resumed his playing, the soft elegance of the music once again filling the room.

The second interruption came almost ten minutes later. With a somewhat exasperated roll of the eyes, Mycroft wondered who it was that felt it necessary to awaken him at this time of the night. Not that he had been asleep, mark you, but the principle remained. Glancing down at the caller's ID, he blinked. Sherlock, of course.

"Yes?" at this time of night, social niceties were likely to be unimportant.

"Mycroft, the killer really is a vampire," Sherlock sounded as if he were walking quickly; the tenor of his breathing confirmed that he was either shocked or moving. Knowing that the younger man was rarely emotionally upset, the alternative was that he was walking. _Fast_. "I made a number of comparisons between the blood-proteins of your sample and the sample of saliva Lestrade was able to get me, and there's no doubt about it. There is at least one other vampire on the loose in London and he or she is not only broadcasting their profile to a dangerously high level with these intensely public slaughters, but ..."

"... But they are doing it in such a way that suspicion will inevitably fall upon my head at some point in the not-too-distant future," Mycroft interrupted. "Yes, I realise. I further realise that this misinformation campaign is being directed not at my professional persona, but rather at me as a private citizen," he added. "Which means, of course, that both I and everyone around me is in danger of attack."

" _Then who is it_ , Mycroft?" Sherlock's breathing pattern had not moderated, further indication that his travels continued. Given that the only place he would have been able to access appropriate laboratory facilities and space at this time of night was undoubtedly at Bart's, then he was most likely heading for the taxi rank outside the hospital at some speed. He was worried ... Mycroft smiled sadly. Sherlock was worried about Kit's safety.

"Be assured, Sherlock, that I am currently here at home and all is well. Kit is fast asleep in her room and I am more than prepared for any potential attack should one occur," he said. "Though I thank you for the advance notice."

"You haven't answered my question," Sherlock's breathing had slowed and there was the sound of some spoken words beyond the conversation itself. The heavy click of a car door closing told Mycroft that Sherlock was on his way. "Why is another vampire trying to destroy you?"

In all his long existence, Mycroft had only made lasting personal contact with one other vampire; the one who had made _him_. But he had thought Daveth long dead beneath a Cornish cliff. Nor had the old vampire had time to make himself a second apprentice, Mycroft recalled their final words with ice-like clarity. _I am glad now that you have returned to me so that I may unmake such a feeble excuse of a successor and create a new one while there is still time for me to do so._ Was it possible that Daveth had managed to survive all the levels of destruction levied upon him? After all this time, was Daveth's ancient violence still to plague his life? But Sherlock's premise was correct. Anyone who would go to such extreme lengths in order to implicate him personally in a series of gruesome murders would have little compunction at destroying any friends, relatives or housekeepers that might be found along the way. Both Sherlock and Kit were in extraordinary danger, probably Anthea too, possibly even his more senior departmental staff.

There was again only one thing that could be done in order to remove this hideous danger from himself and his family; Mycroft was going to have to locate the threat and neutralise it in the most permanent of ways. Sherlock was still waiting for his response, but there were some things that could not be spoken of beyond these very secure walls.

"Come home immediately and without digression," he directed urgently. "I know you'll be tempted to speak to those homeless people you call your 'Network', but on this matter I insist that you do not stop for anything or anyone; I'll be waiting for you at the door in case the house is under surveillance. Remember that vampires can move incredibly swiftly. _Hurry_."

Given the distance Sherlock had already travelled in the taxi, also computing the level of traffic at this time of night, and basing his calculations on Sherlock taking the more direct route via The Strand and ensuring the cabbie put his foot down, Mycroft estimated the cab would be arriving in twenty-six minutes; there was still time for a few more bars of Schubert. But first, a phone call to the supervisor of his night-shift observation team; if anything strange happened in London, his people had the best eyes to find it.

###

 _Mycroft had actually sounded concerned_. He had been genuinely anxious that Sherlock make his journey direct and not step outside the cab until he reached the Pall Mall house. Sherlock sat back in the long seat of the cab and contemplated this notion. The knowledge that there was at least one other vampire in London had come as no surprise at all to Mycroft, so either he already knew this fact, or had, at the very least, suspected it. That this other vampire had embarked on some form of personal vendetta had also been less than a surprise, suggesting that Mycroft not only knew who the other vampire was, but likely also knew why they were behaving in this manner. _Mycroft already knew his enemy_. Given that this was so, then Mycroft was in the very best position to know what defences should be considered in order to both protect those within them and to deter any attacks from without. But what defences would work against a vampire bent upon mayhem and violence?

Almost as soon as Sherlock had come into Mycroft's care as a child, twenty-five years before, he had known there was something odd about his Guardian. Not _horrible_ odd, but strange, beyond anything that might be considered _normal_. It had taken only a matter of a few days observation by his nine-year-old self to realise that Mycroft's house was full of surprises, not the least being the very secret den beneath the library. Once Sherlock had accidentally seen Mycroft enter his lair through a passage behind the painting, it was only a matter of time before the truth would out. Sherlock paused then, wondering if his life had actually been in danger at that point: all Mycroft needed to do was claim his new ward had run away. Nobody would have been any the wiser and his body would never have been found. He had never known Mycroft adopt a violent approach when a peaceful one worked equally well. Nor had the old vampire ever given so much as a hint that Sherlock and Kit had even been at risk around him; he simply wasn't inclined to violence if it might possibly be avoided. The _fear_ of violence was often far more useful and Sherlock had seen the older man apply this tactic on numerous occasions, often with amazingly productive results.

Which meant that Mycroft might be at a disadvantage here; he was up against an equal for once, and an equal without the slightest reluctance to use the most spectacularly horrendous violence that was possible against the human form. Assuming Mycroft already knew his enemy, then he knew this fact also and thus, would have taken steps to bring the odds back into his favour. Master strategist that he was, Mycroft would not leave the smallest factor to chance and, even though he did not yet know what defences Mycroft had planned and erected around his home, Sherlock realised they would be profound and deadly to any who challenged them.

Sherlock had only ever witnessed brief moments of Mycroft's inhuman strength and speed; Mycroft lifting a gangling ten year-old straight up in the air to cap the tall Christmas tree with a glittering star; Mycroft running swiftly up four flights of stairs with Kit in his arms the time she had tipped her ankle in the rear courtyard; the time when, as a jest, he had accepted Sherlock's challenge to play Chopin's Minute Waltz in thirty seconds, the man's fingers moving so rapidly they blurred. Sherlock had never seen the older man in any violent altercation, had never seen him fight with anything other than words. Would he be able to defend himself against a physically violent attack?

And what of he and Kit? Though Sherlock knew himself to be more than averagely agile and well able to take care of himself in a variety of physical altercations, with weapons and without, Kit was not. Elderly and ill, Kit had to be protected at all costs, and he knew that Mycroft would have also considered this point and laid his plans accordingly. Neither of them would be able to survive a vampire intent on their death and Mycroft, of course, knew this too. The Pall Mall house would therefore be a fortress, Mycroft's final bastion of security and rigged with all manner of secret defences. Sherlock felt his eyebrows rise as he reflected on Mycroft's long game; the fortifications that must have been built into the very bones of the house when it was constructed, over three hundred years before. His Guardian had never even hinted at them, let alone discussed them openly. Well _that_ would soon change.

The cab turned into the wide thoroughfare of Pall Mall and shortly thereafter, pulled up outside the well-lit portico. At the sound of the car's engine, Sherlock saw Mycroft stand beside the just-opened door, his gaze taking in the entirety of the street as far to either side as was possible to see. Apparently, there was no overt danger as he beckoned Sherlock into the house.

Throwing a twenty at the driver, Sherlock was out of the vehicle and into the house in less than three seconds, the solid _thud_ of the rock-heavy oak slab closing behind him providing a feeling of safety Sherlock had never really appreciated before this moment. Turning to smooth his palm down the inside of the great wooden door, Sherlock smiled.

"No wonder this thing was always so heavy," he said, almost to himself. "There has to be a half-inch steel plate sandwiched inside the timber, hasn't there?"

"Three-quarter inch, actually," Mycroft was already walking back towards the kitchen. "I had the hinges and the deadlocks changed immediately after the last war to cold-rolled steel welded to heavy steel plate embedded four feet into the brickwork," he added. "The plates in the walls were originally pig-iron which raised a few eyebrows at the time the house was built, as you might imagine, but it was relatively simple to make the structural additions in 1946, what with all the other rebuilding going on around the city," Mycroft smiled at the memory. "I do like to keep things as up to date as I can," he smiled again. "Drink?"

It was almost dawn and there was little point attempting sleep at this juncture. Following Mycroft into the Drawing Room, Sherlock flung his heavy coat over the back of a beautifully upholstered Chippendale chair and threw himself down onto an equally lovely padded sofa. Taking the tumbler of malt Mycroft held out to him, Sherlock's freshly opened eyes were already scanning the curtained windows of the long room. "Steel shutters?"

"Automatic; concealed in the upper window casing," Mycroft nodded, tasting his drink.

" _Every_ window?" Sherlock was curious.

"Every window and external door on the first two floors, descending steels bars for the upper floors," Mycroft nodded again. "Structural weight issues," he shrugged and looked fatalistic.

Sipping the extremely good Islay, Sherlock relaxed back against the comfortable padding of the sofa and looked thoughtful. "The roof?"

"Reinforced steel-matrix beams and three-quarter inch plate at the attic level," Mycroft lifted his eyes skyward. "Concrete-reinforced bearing walls. The entire roof could go and we'd still be perfectly safe," he said. "Little short of a nuclear bomb could dent this place, although we'd probably not float terribly well if there was ever a ninety-foot flood," he smiled mildly.

"And the basement?" Sherlock was feeling strangely thrilled at all the revelations. He'd never imagined any of this.

"Which one?" Mycroft regarded him unblinkingly.

Clutching his glass, Sherlock leaned forward, an expression of delighted disbelief on his face. "Which _one?_ "

Mycroft's smile grew fractionally smug. "You didn't really think you'd found all there was to find, did you?" The smile grew.

"Show me," Sherlock stood, knocked back the last of his scotch and waited.

"Really, Sherlock, one does not treat thirty-year-old Islay malt with such disrespect," Mycroft took a final neat sip and stood, straightening his jacket as he did. "Follow me."

Walking to the Library and switching on the lights nearest the wall containing the secret entrance, Mycroft pressed the small brass nameplate beneath the painting, opening the hidden door. Though illumination was unnecessary for him, Mycroft flicked on further light switches as he descended into his private _sanctum_ , where, after reaching the central seating area, he stopped and turned.

"Think, Sherlock," he said. "What is the primary rule of all bolt-holes?"

"To always have a secondary means of escape," Sherlock immediately began staring at the walls, the low ceiling ... the floor.

"And do you honestly imagine I'd have only the _one_ emergency escape exit from down here?" Mycroft sounded like a teacher. He folded his arms, patiently.

"I know there's an exit through the far wall, leading into the main basement where the household utilities and systems are housed," Sherlock had discovered _that_ doorway decades ago. "But I don't think you're talking about that one, are you?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"Any real emergency exit has to be easy to get at, simple to activate and impossible to forget," Sherlock muttered, his eyes darting from one wall to the next, considering and dismissing dozens of possibilities. There were so many shelves and cabinets and odd nooks down here, it might be anywhere. And as Mycroft had designed the exit and was utterly paranoid about installing safety redundancies in _everything_ , it would be _very_ hard to spot. "I can only think it must be either through the floor in this seating area or under the stairway we walked down," Sherlock turned his eyes back to Mycroft's face. "But as this additional exit hasn't been used in all the time I've been at this house, there are no tell-tales for me to find," he added. "How am I doing?"

"Not the stairs, though there are some small concealed compartments under several of the stone treads," Mycroft looked pleased. "And not the floor, though you were right to consider this main seating area as the place to look for an emergency exit," he continued. "Care to try again?"

Knowing that the exit was somewhere in the area he now stood, Sherlock's mind went into overdrive, examining angles of the brickwork, placement of the seating modules, the large oblong coffee table, the set of the lighting embedded in the ceiling ... nothing leaped out at him. A look of self-irritation creasing his face, he turned and looked ... _really_ looked ... at the enormous, glass-cased display of the ancient cow-hide that had been secured to the wall since the first time he ventured down here so long ago. Folding his arms, he tilted his head and looked sideways at the huge framed case. It was far too massive and fragile to be lifted on and off the wall simply to expose a hidden door, but perhaps there might be a smaller opening beneath the thing, unseen due to the strategic placement of furniture and the overhead lighting.

"There," he nodded at the glass case. "Not sure how, but it's the last place anyone would look at and see a door, _ergo_ , it's the first place it would be."

"Well _done_ , Sherlock," Mycroft smiled, pleased. "Quite correct; it has something to do with the case and the wall. Keep going; you're almost there."

Rolling his eyes at the faintly patronising tone, Sherlock stepped as close to the glass as the seating modules permitted, pushing them to one side when they obstructed his path. With the way finally free and unobstructed, he was able to stand right up against the case, something he'd never dared do before, even as a child. He looked for any indication of a switch or a button of sorts, anything that might ... _ah_.

His mouth curving at the corners, he leaned forward and pressed the small brass plate beneath the display. There was a deep _click_ and, after a moment, a growing rumble.

Standing back in order not to miss a single iota of the great reveal, Sherlock watched as the glass display case remained entirely motionless, just as the whole wall _moved back into darkness_. Amidst a flurry of dust and a scattering of tiny cement particles, there was a slow grating sound as the wall then slid a little to the left, exposing a narrow doorway to the far right of the glass case.

" _Finally_ ," Mycroft unfolded his arms and stepped towards the concealed doorway. "This way."

###

The dream had seemed almost real; she could still hear the orchestra in the back of her thoughts. Ellis sat in the kitchen of her flat drinking a mug of coffee for breakfast, wondering what on earth people wore when they went out for cocktails these days. Even if she had a little cocktail frock, which she didn't, wearing such a thing would feel pretentious and artificial, as if she were putting on an unnecessary show for something that was, in all reality, probably not very much at all. But the dream of the waltz in the Library ... where Mycroft had morphed into the portraits on the walls of his home; where she had becomes something glamourous and mystical ... It was all so clear in her mind. It felt so tangible.

Carrying her coffee into her bedroom, Ellis opened the door to her tiny walk-in wardrobe and switched the light on. All her evening clothes, such as they were, were at the far end. She had a choice of three things. Either a full-on glam maxi-dress, black, faintly glittery and definitely posh, which she had for the occasional gala or big charity do that museums often ran as fundraisers. She had an equally black but rather lacklustre pants suit which fitted well and did service for the more formal business events, or a knee-length party dress which seemed to have a few more missing sequins than she remembered from the last time she'd worn the thing which, she realised, was at least a couple of Christmases before. She didn't seem to be the kind of person who went in for a lot of dinners or evening events, usually preferring a good book or a night in with some decent music. Modern social life seldom seemed as interesting to her as the great imperial balls and intrigues of centuries before.

Making a resigned face at her limited choices, she grabbed the trousers of the black suit and returned to the kitchen. They were a plain but rich black and they fitted seamlessly. It should be possible, she supposed, for her to nip out in her lunchbreak and see if she could find a suitable snazzy top to go with the trousers in the January sales. There were still plenty of shops advertising half-prices on just about everything, so it wouldn't take her long to find something decent, surely? Deciding that, if push came to shove, she would simply leave her coat on, especially if they weren't going to be at the cocktails place for very long.

 _I'm hardly dressed for dancing ..._ her words came back on threads of memory. But it hadn't mattered, had it? Ellis smiled as echoes of the dream swooped down on her again, whirling her round and around to the strains of Strauss and with the feeling of his arm about her waist.

 _Humans only ever see what they want to see ... and you look so incredibly beautiful tonight ..._ Well, alright. It was a dream, but the look in his eyes when he said those words was the same look he'd given her earlier when he said he'd call. _I have your card ... I'll call you ..._ and he'd been true to his word.

Pulling on a black t-shirt and a thick cardigan on top of the black trousers, she slid into her coat and gloves, grabbing a piece of toast she headed down along the pavement towards the Oval tube station. Catching a Northern line train to Moorgate, she hopped across to the Metropolitan line for the quick trip to the Barbican, before walking another few minutes to the London Museum. All up, her commute had taken less than forty-five minutes _and_ it took her right past her favourite coffee house. Clutching a very large macchiato and a hot cheese croissant, she walked into her little office and got down to the business of the day. Her tenure at the museum would be up at the end of March and she needed to locate another research project that could use her particular skillset. But in the interim, she was perfectly content to keep working on the growing catalogue of documents, artefacts and clothing she'd been recruited to catalogue and curate for the new English Nobility collection.

Starting to go through the latest batch of incoming emails responding to the searches for provenance she'd sent out over the last few days, she reminded herself to check with Ron Oliver in case he knew if the museum might be after a freelance researcher for any upcoming collections. Ellis liked working here; it was a nice place, companionable, relatively easy to get to, the people were great and the facilities excellent. But in the meantime, she'd just have to focus on finishing off the work she had in the best way she could.

_I believe this dance is mine..._

Even though she was reading her emails, Ellis still heard Mycroft's voice in her thoughts.

 _I brought this for you_ , he said, dangling gold and emeralds in front of her as if it was the most normal of things to do. _It's from my collection ..._

Shaking her head and frowning at her own deplorable lack of focus, Ellis got back to the Buckingham letters, managing to transcribe, clean and mount an entire manuscript before her thoughts wandered off again.

_I never change ... I am as constant as the heavens ..._

A strange thing for anyone to say, even in a dream, she narrowed her eyes in thought. Why on earth did she dream Mycroft Holmes would say something like that? Picking up the next folded piece of parchment, she carefully levered the pages open using a warmed roll of white velvet cloth which had the faintest traces of moisture in it. The infinitesimal amount of steam enabled the paper to relax from its folds rather than crack or split, and yet it was not so much as to dampen the hand-ground seventeenth-century ink.

_Infinite history, finite storage ..._

Sitting upright, Ellis frowned again at that last phrase. She had clearly assumed Mycroft to have all manner of things hidden away inside that library of his, but why would she consider that he'd also have an infinite history? Was it perhaps the fact that the Holmes family line seemed to go back for as long as any other family history she'd ever known? And if that were true, then how come she, supposedly one of Britain's top-notch research historians, had never heard the name of _Holmes_ in any relevant historical contact?

Pausing for a cup of tea, Ellis thought she might have a look and see if any of the as yet uncatalogued garments waiting in the large storage area might give her inspiration for the cocktail thing tonight; there might be a colour or something that caught her eye. Walking slowly through the racks of clothes; boots and coats and vast crinolined dresses, silks and wools and antique tweeds that went back to some ancient Scottish ancestors, perhaps.

A flash of bright green flickered in her peripheral vision; the same hunter-green she had worn in her dream last night. Taking great care to uncover the article on the hanging-rack without damage to it or anything around it, Ellis found herself holding a large gauzy cotton bag within which was the most incredible mid-Victorian green silk jacket; bustle bow back on black floral silk jacquard with dropped shoulders and pagoda sleeves. Ellis judged it to be from around the eighteen-sixties. It was a stunning piece of craftsmanship; the hand stitching alone must have taken weeks for any competent seamstress to complete. There was no chance of finding anything like this in any London shop around the Barbican unless she was prepared to pay a small fortune which, of course, she couldn't, not which her contract coming to an end soon.

And then, of course, the idea entered her head. Why not try the jacket on and see if it fitted? Ellis was relatively slight and the jacket didn't look _that_ small, even though most Victorian women would have been corseted to death at the time the garment was made. But still; would it hurt just to try it on?

Knowing she was entirely alone down here, Ellis unhooked the bag and delicately unzipped the seal. Inside, the brilliant green silk was sleek to the touch, not dry and harsh as it might have been if improper storage had been an issue. This piece looked perfectly fine; it had clearly been cleaned before it was hung up in the temperature-regulated storage room, as there was not the slightest smell of age or mould, or even the suggestion of whatever agent had been used in the last cleaning process.

Deciding to try it on was against everything she had been trained to do, but Ellis could see the garment was in excellent shape and condition. If nothing else, by trying it on she might be able to spot any unseen flaws. Essentially then, she was merely doing her job and maintaining her reputation for meticulous work.

Sliding her own woolly cardigan off and leaving only the black t-shirt beneath, she gently eased one arm into the appropriate sleeve. If felt as if it had been made for her; the length of the sleeve and indeed, the entire fit was perfect. But would the bodice be too tight? Many Victorian women wore tight-laced bodices rather than brassieres which were not invented until 1893, and which meant their chest-shape was often flatter in profile than that of the modern woman. Holding her breath, or rather, trying _not_ to hold her breath, Ellis eased the gorgeous green silk around her back where the high collar sat smoothly against the nape of her neck and the beautifully-sewn bustle bow lay neatly at the base of her spine. Both arms were in the sleeves now, and while they were supremely fitted as was proper for such a fashionable item, they were not overly tight or in any danger of stretching or splitting at the seams. The back fitted as snugly as the waist and it felt perfectly comfortable.

_You look so incredibly beautiful tonight ..._

Feeling reckless, Ellis brought the two fronts of the jacket together, buttoning up the long line of silk-covered buttons, each one the size of a pea, from the bottom to the top. Once they were all done up, Ellis wished there was a mirror down here so she could see the results of her careful efforts, but there wasn't. What there was, however, was a ceiling-to-floor glass dividing wall between the clothing storage facility proper and the general storage area. By moving a tall rack of black-bagged long coats behind the glass, Ellis managed to create a makeshift mirror. She dared a look.

_Humans only ever see what they want to see ..._

The jacket not only looked impossibly elegant and lovely, but it fitted as if she had been the original model for the piece. Her hair was currently loose which concealed the magnificent high collar, but hair was easy to pin up. Ellis knew she could be fired for the plan that had taken residence in her head.

_Something had to give ... the result has been most propitious ..._

She couldn't wear the t-shirt beneath the jacket, it wrinkled too obviously, but wearing the jacket by itself and with her hair up, it would look grand enough for cocktails, she thought.

_Humans only ever see what they want to see ..._

Ellis felt a it a momentary shame that she didn't have the emerald necklace from her dream, but that was dreams for you. All she needed was something a little more interesting than plain old hair grips to keep everything up and off her neck. Perhaps that was something she might find during lunch; there were any number of small, artisan accessory places in the area, so a pretty gilt clip should be just the ticket

She smiled to herself as she slid the jacket back off and onto a thickly padded hanger to enable the garment to breath properly before the evening. It was only as she returned to her desk with a fresh cup of tea that she suddenly wondered why Mycroft had used the term ' _humans_ ' in her dream. The more usual expression would have been 'people' surely?

Perhaps the question might arise during the evening ahead.


	15. in which preparations are made.

 

The chill in the room beyond the narrow entrance was distinctly noticeable, as if a refrigerator door had been left open. Unquestioning, Sherlock followed Mycroft into the unlit space beyond the doorway half expecting to see his breath cloud the air around him. He never doubted he was about to see something that would speak of the old vampire's unrecorded history, something, perhaps of his very earliest times. The sound and feel of mason-smoothed stone beneath his feet … not concrete, he knew the difference … suggested this was one of the oldest parts of the house. Sherlock stood blind in the utter darkness, lifting his head to sense what might be made of the place without light.

Though the ceiling was as high above his head as the more cluttered room beyond, there was a different _feel_ about the space, as if there were more of it, more unfettered openness, or that the space was less _filled_ somehow. There was a smell in here different to that of the other room … this one was, not exactly musty, but it smelled of _older_ things, things that had been in this dark place for a long, long time. There was no sense of organic material or grit beneath his feet; he ground the sole of one shoe experimentally to see if more information might be forthcoming, but all he got was stone. Old stone, smoothed by hand, not machine. He was also becoming aware of a vaguely metallic odour now that his nose was becoming used to the chill; he detected the faintest undertone of metal polish … _rust_ … and something else. Strangely, despite the cold, these was no hint of damp anywhere; this room must be both incredibly ventilated, as well as sealed off from the porous London limestone beyond, earthy and mixed with the stiff grey-blue clay of the marine basin on which the city was built. There was no damp in this place; nothing was decayed or rotting.

The sound of his shoes tapping echoingly against the stone also told him something of the dimensions of the space in which he currently stood; a large expanse to be sure, larger than the storage area they'd just left. Taking his bearings, Sherlock realised they were directly beneath the main space of Mycroft's library. He looked up, not that anything could be seen in this pitch dark but he wondered how many trapdoors Mycroft had built into the ceiling of this place in case of fire or flood. He inhaled slowly and deeply, tasting as much of the air around him as he could; the same hint of the metallic, but there was also a trace of … _salt?_ Why would there be salt down here? The house was nowhere near the river; there had been no wharfs this far into the city at any time during its long history as a seaport. Stretching out his hands in a slow circle around his body, his right hand touched the sharp edge of rough stonework; the corner of a wall, perhaps. It felt chill and clean against his fingertips; no damp, no rot or mildew, very little dust.

The sudden fierce white light of several fluorescents made him blink hard.

No subtly embedded LED ceiling-lights in here, in this immense space that stretched away as far as he could discern. Nor were there any of the niceties that Mycroft had incorporated in his more frequented hidey-hole next door. No, this place was something else entirely. As Sherlock watched, the bright glare of fluorescent strips flickered on over and over again, each one illuminating another section of this vast subterranean depository, though there were several areas that stayed dark, the lights too deteriorated to work.

Looking to the right where his hand still rested against rough stone, Sherlock saw it wasn't part of a wall, but one of many solid stone pillars that supported the flat stone ceiling above, stretching away, extending across the entire footprint of the Pall Mall house and courtyard. There were dozens of pillars exactly the same; the room was massive. Even with all the bright strip-lighting on the ceiling, the place still looked mysteriously shadowy as darkness hovered in strange corners. The place was more empty than filled, with odd piles of things scattered across the floorspace. On the far side of the room there appeared to be an arrangement of furniture.

"Welcome to my ultimate safe room, Sherlock," Mycroft was already walking swiftly towards the far wall. "And my plan of retreat and last resort," he added, standing beside a small steel door bolted into the wall.

 _Steel. Stone. Cold. Ventilated_. "This place is fireproof," Sherlock nodded as he scanned around the boundaries of the huge space. "Not only is the entrance difficult to find, but once you were in here, it would be nigh impossible for anyone to force you out," he observed, turning his head to look at the lock-fastening mechanism that had been activated by the press of a small brass plate on the far side of the wall. Great steel bars slid out of equally solid-looking casings; the lever-system within the wall must be exquisitely geared and balanced to move such a weight so easily. Satisfied that he understood the basic principles of the mechanism for now, he swivelled on his heels, taking in everything there was to see. It was startling to say the least.

"Oh dear god."

Sherlock found himself looking down the length of the brick partition through which they'd just come, a stretch of wall space almost completely covered with great metal weapons of war. Entire suits of armour had been mounted on racks around the room. But this wasn't the shining, museum-worthy stuff stored on the other side of the wall. This was armour that had been hacked and slashed, dented and broken. If the room on the far side of the wall kept exhibits of the art of war, this place showed the battlefield; harsh, bloody and violent. Great iron pikes and broadswords hung on the walls, some far too heavy to have been used by a mortal soldier. There were suits of horse's armour too, long braided tassels, hand-beaten head shields. There were also more of the huge framed glass cabinets like the one that hung in the other room displaying the ancient cow hide, though the ones in here contained bones … _human_ bones. Complete skeletons, stretched out in eternal repose, their desiccated remains luridly displayed beneath the actinic lights.

"Mycroft, why do you have a large number of human skeletons decorating the walls?" he breathed. "Though please understand I'm not being in the least critical," he added, his eyes moving from one glass coffin to the next. "These aren't the bodies of people you've ... _ah_ …"

"The remains of some of my most renowned enemies," Mycroft announced from where he stood. "Each one of these men tried to best me at some point in the last two thousand years, and each failed, though a couple of them came uncomfortably close," he pointed towards an ornately carved and gilded case on the far wall. "Asclepiodotus," he grinned nastily. "One of the earliest Dukes of Cornwall who betrayed his kinsmen to the Romans," he added, folding his arms. "Everyone thought he fell into a flooded river and drowned, but in reality, he died on the point of my sword."

"And that one?" Sherlock pointed at a much smaller display case realising, on a closer view, that there was only half a skeleton. The top half. "What happened to the rest of him?"

"Blederic of Dumomnia. Slaughtered an entire monastery of monks because they refused to acknowledge him as their king. He died attempting to flee me by jumping into a well. I kept the half of him my sword managed to reach," Mycroft sounded entirely too cheerful about such bloodthirsty exploits.

"I demand to hear the stories of each and every one of the artefacts in this room," Sherlock muttered, still trying to absorb all the things there were to be seen. He stopped as something in the centre of the great space caught his eye, gleaming beneath the harsh overhead lights. Walking swiftly towards the reflected glow, Sherlock's breath caught. On the floor in front of him, stacked on a low granite slab, was a half-covered pyramid of gold bullion bars. The lowest layer was stacked ten-by-ten, with each subsequent layer one bar less … three hundred and eighty-five bars of solid gold.

"These are _kilobars_ ," Sherlock was running some rapid mental arithmetic. "At today's gold price, this bullion has to be worth almost nine million pounds," Sherlock frowned and looked across at the tall man who appeared not in the least bit surprised.

"It's very hard not to make money when you live as long as I have," Mycroft smiled briefly. "I'll probably end up giving the rest of it to the British Museum and Library," he seemed wholly indifferent.

"The rest ..?" Sherlock followed Mycroft's gaze until her realised he could see another of the small pyramids, this one covered entirely by a dull, earth-toned tarpaulin. Mycroft's basement was a depository of more than history.

"I did tell you that money wasn't a problem if you ever needed any," Mycroft sounded impatient. "But I didn't bring you to this place in order to show you shiny gold," he said. "Come over here."

The small grey-steel door was three feet from the floor and dogged shut by the same pressure locking system as might be found on a submarine, the circular locking wheel still slick with heavy oil even after years without use. Wrapping both hands around the wheel, Mycroft turned it anti-clockwise with seemingly little effort. After several complete turns, there was a solid _clunk_ and a faint hiss of displaced air as the door was unsealed. Lifting up a solid brass handle on the right of the wheel, he pulled the door carefully unstuck, swinging it open with a slowness that suggested great weight. The smell of the river washed through the surrounding air, filling the room with the scent of salt water, diesel oil and cold, wintery air.

Sherlock peered down into an unappealing-looking tunnel little more than five feet high and which ran straight back into the darkness. Dimly glowing World War II bulkhead lights were fixed to the upper surface of the passageway.

"This tunnel heads towards the Thames for about eighty feet before it divides into three," Mycroft waited until the younger man met his eyes. "The left tunnel which is very difficult to pass for about thirty feet after it diverges, leads eventually into a hidden and unknown storage room in one of the lesser cellars of Whitehall, not terribly far from the location of my own department. The door there can only be opened from inside the tunnel," he paused, holding Sherlock's gaze. "The right-hand tunnel, also problematic to traverse for about thirty feet or so, will take you to an outlet by the lake in St James Park. The last few feet of that particular exit might be a little ... damp."

"And the central tunnel?" Sherlock anticipated what Mycroft would say, but waited to hear nonetheless.

"The central tunnel is moderately difficult to traverse for approximately five feet, then smoothes out into a much more comfortable passageway which runs almost all the way to the river beneath Horse Guards Avenue."

"Almost?" Sherlock felt his eyebrows rise and the corner of his mouth curve up.

"Anyone taking the central tunnel would receive a most unpleasant meeting with the Thames via an oubliette which empties out beneath the Embankment," he paused, thinking. "Eventually."

Grinning, Sherlock found himself impressed despite his better judgement; Mycroft rarely needed to be a bastard; he allowed other people to do all his bastardry for him. "What's that over there?" he asked, pointing towards the furniture he'd noticed earlier. "Another grisly historic diorama?"

"Hardly." Swinging the door closed and dogging it tight, Mycroft walked briskly towards large pieces of furniture that appeared to be wardrobes, surrounding an open-plan bedroom and emergency office. Mycroft flung open the door of the first wardrobe to reveal a fairly modern-looking industrial freezer inside. It was sealed with a tumbler lock containing a twelve-number combination; Sherlock counted the clicks as each one was locked in. Swinging open the doors, Mycroft revealed the contents. Hundreds and hundreds of small frozen packets of a yellowy substance. "Blood plasma," he said, reclosing the doors and spinning the dial. "Enough to last me for a very long time. I replenish my storage every ten years to keep things viable."

"But I thought you required whole blood?" Sherlock sounded confused. "Or can you exist on plasma?"

"Not only on plasma, no," Mycroft walked across to the opposite set of cabinets, also with combination locks, opening the doors to reveal an endless number of small plastic containers with dates written on them. They contained a dark brown granulated powder. "Flash-frozen red and white blood cells," he looked fatalistic. "Not the best option by any means, but whole blood has a very limited shelf-life," he tipped his head to one side and wrinkled his nose. "My existence down here would be something akin to a camping trip, but it could be done."

"And this place is geared up to hide you for years if needs be," Sherlock breathed. " _Decades_ ," he swept his gaze over the remaining ensemble. A large bed, with a gold-framed painting hanging on the wall above it, fabric-draped to protect it against dust; a bedside table holding an archaic electric lamp and a long wooden box. "What's in there?" he asked, feeling he might already know the answer.

Walking across to the bed, Mycroft flipped the box open. It contained a long roll of black velvet which he took out and placed on the bed. Unwrapping the fabric with great care, he revealed an ornate Japanese _tantō_ , scarcely twelve inches long, its beautiful tempered steel blade shimmered blue in the bright overhead light.

"Should I decide not to continue," he said briefly, wrapping the razor-sharp knife back up into the thick velvet roll.

"And why show me all this?" Sherlock continued to gaze around, hyper-curious about the remaining trunks and boxes there were piled up against the walls. "Why now?" he asked wonderingly, turning back to meet the older man's eyes.

Mycroft held his gaze. "Because of the results of your tests," he said. "Because of what you told me ... _confirmed_ for me, about the killer."

"You think you know who it is," Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he read the vampire's expression. "You know who it is and you think he's going to attack ... and you're concerned ..." he stopped in surprise. "You actually think there might be a chance he'll kill you," he said at last. "You didn't come down here to show me your escape route, you brought me in so that I could see the escape route in case _I_ needed to flee," he said, his eyes widening.

"It's a distinct possibility, Sherlock," Mycroft looked pensive. "I've personally tried to kill this man and apparently failed; there was no way he could have survived our last encounter, yet it seems he has. I have no idea how much stronger he might have become in the time since we last confronted one another, nor what preparations he might already have made to reach this point in time. I have to do all I can to secure the safety of my family."

"And what of Kit ... what about the people in your department?"

"I shall take care of Kit, never worry on that score," Mycroft looked dark. "And I have taken steps to maintain a steady rotation of staff within my department so that none of them have stayed as long as they might have done," he looked briefly pained. "This has not always assisted with the efficient running of the department, but it was for their good as much as it was for mine."

"Then what about this historian woman you've been brooding about for the last week?" Sherlock raised both his eyebrows and looked arch. "Not a totally dispassionate meeting of minds, I'd suggest."

"I haven't been brooding, Sherlock," Mycroft raised his own eyebrows in surprise. "I do not brood."

"She's been here at least four times that I'm aware," Sherlock wheeled around to examine the exterior of a most fascinating brass-bound box stacked in a pile with several others. "When she's here, you can't stop talking to her and showing off all your favourite things, and when she's _not_ here, you're thinking about what you can show her when she comes back. You _brood_ ," he tapped the front of the box with the toe of his shoe. "What's in here?"

"You know, I've absolutely no idea," Mycroft was exceptionally pleased at the change of subject. He watched as Sherlock dug into an inner pocket of his jacket, producing a small suede roll containing his lockpicks.

He most certainly did not brood.

Nor, fortunately, had Sherlock asked to see the painting hanging above the bed.

###

Arriving at his office at the usual time, Mycroft was not remotely surprised to see Anthea seated in one of his visitor's chairs, waiting. Taking the time to hang up his long coat and scarf, laying his leather gloves and umbrella on a low table near the door, he neither looked at her nor spoke. She was clearly here with something important on her mind and he would not do anything to affect what she was preparing to say. There was a large manila envelope sitting on the arm of the chair. It looked old and indefinably foreign. Finally seating himself behind his desk, he checked the time on his hunter and ran a swift mental check against pending appointments.

"Your first meeting isn't until ten-thirty with the Shadow Home Secretary who won't arrive before ten-fifteen, and you already know everything there is to know about what she wants to discuss, so I estimate we have thirty minutes to talk."

"You think thirty minutes will be sufficient?" Mycroft linked his fingers and leaned back in his chair, the lighting in his office angled in such a manner that the top half of his face was slightly shadowed. His eyes glittered.

"There are two things I wish to raise with you this morning, Mr Holmes," Anthea continued as if he'd not spoken. "The first is this message. I should have given it to you several days ago, but it became stuck in my pocket and ... and I forgot it was there," she added. "My sincere apologies; I'm sorry if this delay will cause you any problems." She handed him a slip of crumpled paper.

 _Hit sy forgitelnes angsumnes ond æfwerdelsa bréostcofa hwonne drút hwy béddagas ays eald ared,_ the original text read and beneath it, the translation said _'Forgetfulness through heartbreak is yours when one whom you love is soon to die.'_

Mycroft almost held his breath, remembering just in time that he had no need to do so. Was this possible? Was it actually a thing so known about the vampire that someone had been able to footnote it in a faded text several hundred years old? He wondered if the author of the book had been a vampire themselves; possibly someone who had known others of their kind? Was this how personal distress affected the vampire? Were his intellectual faculties so fragile as to be impeded by acute emotional suffering? The thoughts flew through his mind in milliseconds. He had no relevant experiences that would serve as examples.

Which led him inevitably, to the second part of the prophesy. _When one whom you love is soon to die_. Assuming the writer of the message was anywhere approaching accurate and the recent mental _absences_ he'd been suffering were some form of precognition or prescience of an event that had not yet taken place, then what was he to do about it? More importantly, _who was about to die?_ Mycroft's immediate thoughts flew immediately to Kit who, by her own admission, had little time left. But then there was also Sherlock and ... Mycroft felt his throat dry. _Beryan_.

"I'm genuinely sorry if my delay has caused difficulties, sir," Anthea sounded genuinely concerned at his extended silence.

"Not at all, Ms Worthington," Mycroft was vaguely pleased his voice evidence no variance from its usual timbre. "I was merely considering a range of possibilities," he blinked, putting the notion of imminent death to one side. "You said there were two things you wished to discuss?"

Nodding briefly, Anthea took a deep breath and relaxed. Lifting the large manila envelope from the arm of the chair, she placed it on his desk. "You should see this," she said. "It explains everything about who I am, why I'm here and why I accessed several highly classified files in the Ultra database last night without authority."

While the envelope itself was of great interest and fully demanding of his attention, what was of even more consequence was resting beneath it; the nineteen millimetre SIG perched on the arm of Anthea's chair, its nozzle pointing, quite incidentally, towards his heart. His own gun used for frightening people who needed to be frightened. He almost smiled.

"It has a stiff safety-catch," he said evenly. "If you plan on shooting me, might I suggest you release the catch now, so as not to be impeded when the moment arrives?"

"I fixed the safety-catch before you came in," Anthea's eyes were unblinking. "Right before I removed the blanks and loaded it with live ammunition."

"Ah," Mycroft looked sage. "Then I shall listen to you with great care," he said, turning his eyes briefly to the envelope before leaning back in his chair again and raising his eyebrows. "Please continue."

"You need to read the information in the envelope first," a frown flickered across her brow. "Then we can talk."

"There's no need for me to read anything," Mycroft smiled mildly.

"There _is_. You have to understand my _situation_ ..." Anthea sounded almost pleading, as if his lack of co-operation was making her uneasy.

"Truly, there is no need," he seemed entirely unruffled. "Since I am already familiar with the contents of the envelope, just as I am fully aware of your background and your probable reason for seeking employment in my department," he glanced towards the SIG. "I see I was not incorrect in that, at least."

"You can't possibly know," Anthea narrowed her eyes. "I've kept this information totally hidden all my life, kept in a secret location that only I know ..."

"Most recently in a custom-made compartment inside your bathroom wall," Mycroft sighed. "Yes, my dear, I really _do_ know all there is to know about you, now can we please get _on?_ "

An expression of shock froze her face into immobility. "You already know? You knew, even when I was being recruited? _You knew?_ "

"Of course I knew," Mycroft started to sound a little bored. "It was one of the reasons I wanted you in my department in the first place."

"But ... but ... my father; you caused his death and my grandfather always told me that it was you who ..."

"Your father was a brilliant but emotionally fallible man. Your grandfather however, is emotionally bankrupt and, I am reliably assured by all who know him, a complete swine," Mycroft leaned forward on the desk, the gun apparently forgotten, his voice dropped into a low growl. "I know _everything_."

"But you don't know that I accessed two Level Two files last night ..." she shook her head and bit her bottom lip. "I need _someone_ to tell me the truth."

"And you trust me with that office?" Mycroft was surprised.

"Despite whatever my grandfather has said, I've never known you lie to me about something important," Anthea looked devastated. "And since I need to hear an alternative perspective, it may as well be yours."

"Then might we do away with the weapon?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows again. "I prefer not to discuss such emotionally-laden topics with a loaded pistol aimed at my vitals."

Anthea looked down at the gun as if surprised it was still there. "Does it really have a stiff safety-catch?" she asked.

Mycroft smiled with his eyes. He knew he'd been correct in her recruitment. Now her _real_ training might begin. He only hoped he'd be around long enough to see the training completed.

###

Feeling inexplicably nervous, Ellis changed into the green jacket and spent ten minutes in the ladies toilets twisting her hair up into a smooth French roll, pinning it finally with the long black clip she'd found during her lunch break. It sparkled with small pieces of green glass and matched the colour of her outfit pretty near perfectly. Thankfully, nobody was around when she walked out of the front exit, not that anything of her clothes could be seen beneath the long wool overcoat draped around her. It was dead-on six-thirty and though it was dry, it was also pitch-dark and an icy wind was picking up.

Just as she was wondering if her watch was fast, a large black car swung into view, pulling to a gentle halt barely inches from her toes. The door nearest her swung open.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long?" Mycroft's full attention was on his guest and he barely noticed the blast of freezing air that entered the car with her.

"Not really, though I'm glad you got here when you did; it's positively biting outside."

"Then be assured this will be the last time this evening you'll feel the cold," he smiled. "I promise."

"Where is this place you mentioned?" Not being much of a party-person, Ellis didn't really know a great deal about London's night life. "Is it going to be busy this early?"

"It won't be in the least crowded," he smiled again. "It's a place I occasionally use when I feel a need to be apart from my fellow men, yet still within a convenient distance of a fully-stocked bar. I think you'll find it amusing."

The jaguar was already past the Old Bailey and heading down Fleet Street towards the Embankment. Even though it was peak traffic, the car seemed to flow towards its objective with barely a reduction of speed. It was a matter of minutes only before it pulled up in front of The Trafalgar hotel, just off Spring Gardens. While it was a large building of Portland Stone, it was hardly what Ellis considered exotic. From the outside, it looked on the mundane side.

Inside was much nicer, with quality carpets and mirrors. There was a very modern-looking bar opening off to the left of the main foyer and Ellis began walking towards the entrance, just as Mycroft caught her elbow with light fingers. "This way," he said, sounding mysterious. 'This' way happened to be towards the bank of lifts taking patrons to the upper floors of the hotel. Mycroft pressed the button for the very top floor.

"This place is usually only open during the summer months," he advised her conversationally. "Though I am known to the owners and occasionally use the facilities for private meetings."

Ellis wondered idly if he meant meetings that were private, or that he had meetings with people he didn't want anyone else to know about. Mycroft Holmes was a most mysterious man. The lift opened out into a rooftop bar with a glorious view over the gaudy light-display that was the whole of central London at night.

"They call this place 'Vista' for obvious reasons," Mycroft pulled off his gloves as he opened the heavy glass door between the passageway and the bar itself. The entire area was quiet and mostly dark, with only a small illumined area out on the open-air terrace.

"Evening sir, madam," a young man wrapped up in a huge puffer jacket stood at the bar smiling at them. "I'm Robbie," he said. "I'll be your bartender for this evening," he added, bringing out a small tray of stuffed olives and tiny cheeses. "What would you like to begin with? I can make anything you'd like," he smiled again, sounding enthusiastic.

"I'd like something warming with brandy, perhaps," Ellis thought she couldn't go too far wrong with brandy.

"May I suggest a Chicago for the lady?" Robbie looked cheerful. "And for sir?"

"Sir would like an Old Fashioned," Mycroft nodded. "Not sweet," he added, walking across to the edge of the rooftop garden to the seating area where the view was the best. There were two large outdoor heaters going full blast and though it still wasn't warm enough for Ellis to remove her coat, it wasn't freezing either.

"What an incredible view," Ellis didn't know where to look first. The brilliantly lit Nelson's Column; the square itself, right across to the National Gallery and any number of wonderfully designed neo-classical buildings of British and Commonwealth government. For an historian, it was breathtaking.

"I'll have to take you up to the top of Saint Paul's one night," Mycroft laughed when he saw the expression on her face. "If you think something like this is incredible, you need to see the old city from the cathedral. It won't disappoint."

"I seem to be seeing lots of amazing things with you," Ellis accepted her cocktail and sipped it, beaming up at the young man's hopeful face. " _Perfect_ ," she said. "Exactly what I was after. Thank you."

After taking his own glass and watching the young man disappear, Mycroft turned back to his guest. "Do you ever take on private curation projects, I wonder?" he asked leisurely.

"Private, as in a project in a private family home or for a specific individual?" Ellis raised her eyebrows. "I have done occasionally," she said, sipping her cocktail again. "I did a massive catalogue not too long ago for the Duke of Bedford at Woburn Abbey," she said. "And the most recent project I took on was an updated curation of the silver collections at Highclere Castle for the Earl of Canarvon," Ellis narrowed her eyes and looked thoughtful, wondering if Mycroft was interested in having his own collection curated. "Why do you ask?"

"I think you already know why," he said, his eyes on hers, his smile ambiguous.

"I find the artefacts you have shown me to be astonishing and worthy of a more public recognition," Ellis finished her drink feeling warmed all through. "Whether you want that or not, you should consider it," she said. "You have some things that are very powerful and utterly magnificent."

"Then would you be interested in cataloguing the Pall Mall collection?" he asked finishing his own cocktail and waving a hand at the enthusiastic Robbie for two more. "I know your current contract is shortly coming to an end."

How he knew such a detail was simply another piece of the mystery surrounding the man. Waiting until Robbie had been and gone, Ellis regarded Mycroft over the rim of her glass. "It could take a fair old while; you have a great many items I've never seen before. Finding the provenance for some of those things could take ..." puffing out her cheeks and rolling her eyes, Ellis had to be honest. " _Ages_."

"Excellent," Mycroft sat back in his chair, his smile unchanged. "The longer the better."

Ellis started to laugh. "Are you flirting with me Mr Holmes?"

"My brother will tell you I never flirt," he raised his glass to her in salute. "Would you like to do it?"

_Would she like to be the first to catalogue such an inexpressibly important collection? The first one, perhaps in years, to get to see everything this man and his family had stashed away over the centuries?_

"When can I begin?" she asked, raising her own glass in return.


	16. in which an old enemy returns.

 

After the decision had been made, there seemed little point sitting in a cold roof-top bar in central London. While Ellis had appreciated the novelty of having the entire place to themselves, she knew where she really wanted to be. Without either of them saying a word, both she and Mycroft stood and walked back to _Vista's_ doorway. Though she didn't stop to watch, she was sure that the fortunate young Robbie had just become the recipient of a very generous gratuity; she was beginning to realise it was the way Mycroft did things.

It seemed foolish to take the car back to the Pall Mall House' since their destination was almost literally around the corner from Trafalgar Square. While the evening was dark and cold, it wasn't raining and Ellis simply fancied the fresh air. "Let's walk, can we?" she said, buttoning up her coat at the neck. "I've been inside all day and it's rare for me to have the opportunity to walk around London after dark."

Dismissing his driver for the evening with his thanks, Mycroft tugged on a pair of black leather gloves. "Rare?" he asked. "How so?"

"Typical man," Ellis wriggled fingers into her own gloves. "A woman out walking the night-time streets alone?" she said, dryly. "I haven't walked around town after dark by myself in years," she smiled. "Even the touristy areas aren't as safe as they once were."

His frown hidden by the shadows of evening, Mycroft experienced a moment's private hope that someone might be reckless enough to see them as an easy target. The idea that Ellis might feel anything less than safe was a displeasing one. "I promise you'll be perfectly alright with me," he looked briefly thoughtful, pausing before extending his arm. "If madam would permit?"

"Madam permits," she smiled, sliding her fingers into the crook of his elbow, feeling him tall and solid and perfectly tangible beside her as they started the short walk back to the house.

Reducing his stride to a speed Ellis could more easily accommodate, Mycroft considered this most unusual of situations. Not only had it been genuinely pleasurable to escort Doctor Wilde to a bar, but the awareness that she had agreed to take on the cataloguing of his entire collection was conspicuously gratifying. He hadn't felt this animated for a good many years. He wondered, however, if Ellis had really considered what she was taking on.

"You are aware this cataloguing and curation might legitimately take a very long time?" he said cautiously, unwilling to frighten her off, yet fearful she might begin to see the task as simply too overwhelming. "I don't want you to agree to anything without being absolutely certain this is what you wish to do; I'd hate for you to become bored midway and feel trapped by the arrangement."

Ellis laughed. "You still don't understand, do you?" she smiled up at him. "This is my _life_ ," she grinned, seeming as elated as he. "This is what I love to do more than anything else in the _world_. It's not my becoming bored that you need to worry about," she added, squeezing his arm a little. "But that I work through things too quickly and run out of artefacts to document."

Smiling to himself, Mycroft knew there was little chance of that happening, not really. Even if she worked her way through the entire collection of _objet_ , there were always the books. If Ellis wanted, she had a job for the rest of her life. His eyebrows rose at the notion; that he might have the joy of her company ... _Beryan_ ... for a long _long_ time was deeply thrilling. If his heart had retained the ability to beat, he had no doubt it would be marking a somewhat faster tempo at the thought of having Ellis all to himself.

"Then you must take care to work slowly," he said. "So that I might have the joy of knowing my collection is being appreciated as much as it possibly can be ..." he paused again, thinking. "Have you given any consideration as to where you would like to start?"

Bringing her other hand up to link her fingers together around his arm, Ellis felt so excited, she was almost skipping. That she was truly being given this breathtaking opportunity hadn't really sunk in yet, nor was it likely to for a good while. To be not only permitted, but _invited_ to spend as long as she wished in the middle of all these beautiful, wonderful things; each one with a story so fascinating as to be unique. That it was to take place in the home of a man she found increasingly compelling and fascinating in his own right ... She felt like a child at Christmas seeing all the shining, glittering presents piled beneath the tree for the first time, even though a part of her brain was telling her to get the contract nailed down before any celebrations got underway. But where to start? A critical question indeed.

"I've no idea," she replied honestly. "I think I'd prefer to have a proper look at everything so I can begin assembling ideas for the overall curated collection in my head," she said. "The portraits would be a great place to begin," she spoke thoughtfully, "and then there's all the military ephemera ..., the marbles, the religious iconography ... the silver ..." it was Ellis who paused this time, suddenly remembering. She stopped walking, turning to face Mycroft beneath a convenient streetlamp. "It _was_ you who arranged to have those boxes of old military kit left outside the London Museum, wasn't it?"

Mycroft stilled. He'd never actually discovered what had brought Ellis to his door in the first place, assuming it had been something to do with Kit. Looking down into the historian's open face, he realised their grand plan could not begin on a basis of deceit.

"You have reason for supposing it to be me?"

Laughing and patting his arm, Ellis grinned and started walking again. "The fact that you haven't even bothered to say 'what boxes?' is probably good enough to be going on with for now," she said. "But don't forget that my job makes me a detective of sorts; ferreting out long-hidden secrets is what I do best," she laughed again "Bicorn hat of felted velour with lambskin cockade, trim and facings, paid for," she added seriously, "by secret government funds. Have your family been in service to the crown for a very long time?"

Mycroft continued walking at her side, reflecting that there were some secrets he would take care to ensure she never discovered. He smiled internally; life was certainly going to be a little different with Ellis around the place.

"And what does the name _Hannis_ mean to you?"

 _Hannis?_ His cover-name for activities undertaken in France during Napoléon's little escapade? Now, how would the good doctor know anything of such business?

"And how many of your family members have been spies?"

"Spies?" It was his turn to stop beneath a convenient lamp, mildly confounded. Mycroft wasn't entirely sure whether to bluff the whole thing out or cave in and confess the lot.

"Not to worry," Ellis patted his arm again, smiling as she recommenced walking. "I'm sure I'll get the complete story out of you sooner or later."

The pillared doorway of his house was only a matter of twenty feet or so away when Mycroft suddenly felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. This early warning system of his had saved his bacon on more than a few occasions and he'd long since learned not to disregard its arrival. Someone was watching ...

Despite the pleasant company, they needed to be inside _now_ ; there were still too many unidentified threats and unspoken dangers to linger out here. Speeding up, they were at the door which seemed to open far too slowly for his liking ... and through. In the next second, the door was firmly locked and bolted behind them.

"Is there a problem?" Ellis frowned at the door as it was closed swiftly behind them. Anyone would think they were being chased by something unpleasant.

"My apologies," Mycroft seemed perfectly relaxed now the danger had been bypassed ... though the fact that he had sensed it so close to home made it vital to have the CCTV footage checked immediately. "There are so many things I wanted to show you this evening that I confess to being a little excited about the whole event," he helped Ellis off with her coat. "May I offer you tea?"

"Tea would be lovely," Ellis unwrapped the scarf from her neck and the gloves from her hands. "It'll give me a chance to catch up with Kit; she was looking a bit tired last time I saw her." Turning at the absolute lack of a response, Ellis observed Mycroft's eyes flickering over her clothing ... _of course_ ... the Victorian jacket. She'd forgotten all about it. "You like the style?" she asked, smiling as she pirouetted slowly.

"You look ... stunning," Mycroft felt his throat dry as a surge of _wanting_ washed over him. "The colour alone ..." a waved hand encompassed her _ensemble_ , his eyes took in the shining red-gold hair, the fair skin and the rich green silk of the outfit. Whether he needed to or not, he found himself inhaling quite deeply.

"Kit!" Ellis called out, turning towards the kitchen. "How are you this evening?"

"In here, my lover," Kit's voice sounded no worse for wear. "Being spoiled like the Queen of Sheba."

Entering the big bright kitchen, the first thing Ellis saw was Kit seated at the table drinking tea, while Sherlock stood at one of the benchtops, mixing up what seemed to be new and different blends of the stuff; the entire kitchen perfumed by the scent of bergamot and citrus, chocolate and ginger, chamomile and cinnamon. Judging by the numbers of opened packets and expensive-looking boxes scatted about the place, someone had been a little profligate with their shopping.

"It was all that Selfridges could deliver," Sherlock complained when Mycroft looked between the younger man and the incredible mess he'd created.

"As long as you don't expect Kit to clear all that lot up after you," Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Now you're being tedious," Sherlock scowled, though he began closing up a couple of the boxes.

"I'm sure Doctor Wilde would appreciate an opportunity to sample the results of your labour," Mycroft smiled, pulling out a chair for Ellis to sit in. "If you could manage to tear yourself away from your experiments for the length of time it takes to fill a kettle with water? I have an urgent phone call to make."

Getting to her feet, Kit smiled at the good natured bickering. It was so nice to have Sherlock back at home, even though she knew it would only be until he'd found himself a new place. Mycroft enjoyed having the younger man around too, though he'd probably never say so in as many words. Her little plan to have the Historian lady get involved with Mycroft's special things in his Library seemed to be working out quite nicely too; she was looking very pretty tonight and Mycroft was behaving like a proper gentleman. Kit smiled to herself. It was good for the man to get himself someone he could talk to about all his books and paintings. Sighing, she made her way out of the kitchen towards the downstairs cloakroom. There was one major drawback to drinking lots of tea, not matter what Sherlock might be telling her that green tea flushed out the digestive system and doing strange and unnatural thing to free radicals, whatever they might be.

Heading down the passage around from the front door, she paused at what sounded like a _tap-tapping_. Now who'd be knocking at the door when there was a perfectly good doorbell waiting to be used? Kit paused, listening. There was nothing, but just as she started to walk further on around the passage, she heard it again _... tap-tap-tap_. A definite noise, though so faint as to be inaudible unless someone was standing right there in the hallway. Sighing she trundled down the passage to the door, clicking open the big heavy deadbolt that Mycroft had installed, turning the handle and pulling the solid door inwards in the same movement.

"What can I do for ..."

The sentence was never finished, as an outsized, monstrous creature clad from head to foot in a dark, heavy coat thrust the door fully open before reaching down to grasp Kit by the throat, slamming her brutally against the wall, his enormous strength dismissive of her feeble struggles. His face was criss-crossed with the faded scarlet cicatrise of dreadful wounds, his huge, shambling body misshapen beneath the long coat.

" _Finally_ ," the man growled. "I meet one of the humans for whom my progeny has sacrificed his eternal legacy!" Staring down into the petrified woman's eyes, Daveth leered, the hideous and contorted disfigurement of his face and body horribly shocking in their own right, regardless of his violent onslaught.

Hearing the sound of running footsteps, her attacker laughed horribly, throwing Kit down into a crumpled heap where she fell, clutching at her chest. Taking to his heels, as both Mycroft and Sherlock rounded the corner of the passageway, Daveth vanished through the open door and into the darkness. A single scrap of paper fluttered to the floor.

" _KIT!_ " Mycroft was already on the floor beside the still-open door which he kick-slammed shut. Wrapping his arms around her frail form, he lifted her up, running into the Drawing Room where he laid her carefully down on one of the sofas. " _Kit_ ..." he felt his voice crack. She was too frail and too ill to be treated like this. "Call an ambulance!" he shouted at Sherlock who already had a phone to his ear. "She needs medical treatment, _hurry!_ "

" _No_ ..." her face bleached-white and with lips rimmed the faintest blue, Kit's eyes flicked open and closed as her body twisted in unbearable pain. " _No need_ ..." she panted. " _Too late now, my lover_ ," her icy fingers brushed Mycroft's hand where he clasped hers tightly. " _Us old nurses know_ ..."

" _Do something_ , Mycroft," the emergency call made, Sherlock threw his phone down, his hands clenching and unclenching, his face a rigid mask of desperation as he hovered above them. "She's dying, for god's sake, _do something_ _now_ ... there's no time left."

Torn between what his emotions desired and what his judgement feared, Mycroft knew Sherlock would never forgive him if he did not make the offer while it might still be made.

"My dearest Kit," he spoke close to her ear. "Do you want me to change you? I can do it now, I can stop this awful pain. I can make you like I am. Do you want that, Kit? Do you want me to change you?"

" _Kit!_ " Sherlock dropped to his knees, searching for the old woman's other hand. "Don't die, Kit," he groaned, holding her soft fingers as carefully as he could. "Let Mycroft help you, let him do this thing ... please let him ... _oh god Kit, don't die_ ..."

" _No, my darling boy_ ... her words so faint as to be mere echoes of old whispers. " _I've had my time ... t'is done now_ ," she fluttered her fingers in the air as if feeling the faintest of sea breezes. " _No need to get yourself upset now_ ," she tried to smile, but her face was stiff. " _Take care of the both of you_ ... _both of my boys_ ..."

" _Kit_ ," Sherlock leaned forward, his face resting gently against the knitted fabric at her shoulder as he inhaled the familiar scent of her. "Don't go, Kit," he whispered. " _Don't leave_."

But she was already beyond hearing him now. There were no more words, no more heartbeat. The pain was gone.

Unspeaking, Mycroft rested a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck feeling the younger man's spine bow in the silent rigidity of grief. He closed his eyes and sighed, dreadfully sad. He had known this moment would eventually arrive, never truly believing that Kit would have taken him up on his offer of immortality. He had farewelled so many people in his lifetime, enemies and friends both, that one more parting should make very little difference.

But this _was_ different. Kit had not died at the end of her allotted time; she had been _taken_. His dearest friend had been taken and nothing in his entire arsenal of wealth, of power or influence could change that fact or bring her back. Leaving Sherlock where he still crouched, half on and half off the sofa, Mycroft stood laboriously, the chill of his heart changing into an ugly, dark emotion he did not recognise, but it burned. Like molten granite, it filled him up inside and burned him to a searing blackness.

It was only then he remembered Ellis and he turned sluggishly, his eyes reaching for hers as she stood framed by the open doorway. Above the hand that covered half her face in shock, she was an essay in anguish: blue eyes painfully wide and with skin that was as pale as Sherlock's.

"Kit was very ill," Mycroft stood slowly to his full height as if impossibly stiff and with nothing in his body but stone. He stepped closer and spoke quietly. "Being attacked pushed her heart too far," he stopped, a fresh wave of sadness tightening his throat.

There was the sound of an approaching ambulance.

"The police must be called," Ellis allowed Mycroft to lead her away from the Drawing Room and back into the kitchen, allowing Sherlock a brief privacy. "If Kit was attacked, the police need to know," she whispered, sinking into the first chair she saw.

"Yes, you're right, of course," Mycroft was relieved that Ellis had not seen what he and Sherlock had glimpsed; the grotesquely deformed features of his ancient enemy. It had indeed been Daveth, or what was left of him; the danger he'd sensed outside, the lurking threat. "I'll call them now," he added, pressing a number he had never had cause to use before.

" _DI Lestrade_."

"Inspector, I need your help," Mycroft held the phone at his ear while he straightened his body again, his eyes staring off into an unseen distance. "There's been an ... incident. _Kit_ ... my housekeeper was attacked ... she is dead, Inspector. I am reporting a death ..." Mycroft realised his mouth was fighting the words he had to say, almost as if the lack of them might make the situation different somehow, might change the result.

"Here," Ellis stood, freeing the device from his rigid fingers. "Let me," she said, putting the phone to her own ear. "Inspector," she began, shakily. "Someone's been killed. The address is ..."

 _Daveth_. The monster who had made him; the ancient vampire who refused to die until he had seen his own line extended by another generation ... the undead fiend who could not himself be destroyed. But that was untrue. Vampires _could_ die, couldn't they? Daveth himself had told him how ... _by flame or by the sword or in the depths of the earth_ ... The darkness inside Mycroft seemed to solidify. _Revenge_ , it said. Revenge the innocent.

It was clear now that Daveth would never cease in his determination to destroy those the old vampire saw as his enemies. This meant that Sherlock, himself and, by extension ... he turned his head to glance over his shoulder at Ellis, still speaking quietly on the phone, _others_ , would never be safe while his nemesis walked the earth.

Therefore, steps would be taken to ensure that Daveth's existence was ended, one way or another. The blackness inside him simultaneously thickened and yet grew more liquid; Mycroft could feel the heavy weight of it settle along the cold spaces of his bones and around his heart. It was death. He could feel the spirit of death within him and, very shortly, Daveth would feel it too.

But how to accomplish the deed? There would be little point attempting a search for the monster Daveth had become; he was clearly responsible for the current spate of deaths the police were labelling 'vampire kills'. Whether his mind had been as damaged as his body by the explosion and the crushing fall of the cliff so many years before, or whether his foul _penchants_ had always found pleasure in excessive violence, who could say. But the monster he had become was as far away from detection and capture now as he had been several months before, even with the entire focus of the Metropolitan Police Force directed at him. An explicit, overt hunt therefore, would be both illogical and impractical.

Thus, it would be necessary to ensure the old vampire would come _to him_. Mycroft blinked several times as his mind scanned swiftly through the various means of death and destruction that might be levied upon a beast like Daveth. There were enough weapons and battle arms in this house to kill a dozen such creatures, though Mycroft did not doubt for a second that the only one who stood any chance of killing the creature was himself. Little short of a tank or a direct hit by field artillery might even stop the thing Daveth had become, not that such an approach had been terribly successful the first time he'd tried it. No, this time it would have to be far more intimate; _up close and personal_ as his American colleagues were so fond of saying.

Which meant by _flame_ or by _sword_ ; depositing Daveth in the 'depths of the earth' lacked the finality that Mycroft required and if an entire Cornish cliffside couldn't do the job, very little else would. His thoughts floated around the armoury down in his private sanctum. There were sufficient means of destruction down there to undertake a moderate campaign in the field. He knew the strengths and weaknesses of every weapon in the building, just as he knew his own physical limitations. He would lure Daveth here, into the house. He would kill him, burn the body to ashes, then scatter the ashes in the Thames. All that remained to do was clear the house of all other hostages to fortune and bait the trap. More than anything else, Daveth sought the death of his traitorous apprentice. Very well, an opportunity for such an event would be arranged.

Mycroft blinked again.

"...Pall Mall," Ellis finished giving the address to a keenly concerned Greg Lestrade who had assured her that both uniformed and plain-clothed personnel would be joining them very shortly.

Handing the phone back to Mycroft, Ellis felt suddenly lost. Having nothing immediate to keep her occupied, to stop her thoughts from spinning wildly, bringing the horror of the evening flooding back, she felt terrible. Leaning over the sink, tears burned in her eyes but were not yet ready to fall. She thought she was going to be sick. Such a lovely, wondrous evening ... and now Kit was dead. Covering her face with the palms of both hands, she stood by the sink feeling dizzy and ill.

Without conscious thought, Mycroft was suddenly there; his arms around her, holding her carefully against his chest as she shuddered. Offering Ellis nothing more than a place to stand inside the shelter of his arms, he rested his face against her shining hair and felt the black flow of death surge through him again. He had lost Kit, but he would not permit Ellis' life to be cut short, just as he could never allow Sherlock to be put at risk. This meant that both humans needed to be elsewhere.

"When the police have finished with you," he breathed softly, catching the fragrance of meadow flowers in her hair. "I want you to leave this place and not return until I contact you," he said. "While you are with me, you are in danger. I want you to go far away, as far away as you can," he added. "Money is of no concern, I have plenty. Pick a faraway place and go there ... New Zealand, Alaska, _Chile_. Go tomorrow, when the police no longer wish to speak with you."

Ellis heard the words, but the words made no sense. What did Mycroft want her to leave him? Why would she be in danger if she stayed? New Zealand? What on earth did he want her to go to New Zealand for?

"Don't be ridiculous," she mumbled against the fabric of his waistcoat. The sensation of his arms heavy around her was a deeply comforting thing. She could barely think about moving from this spot, let alone leave the country.

There was heavy thumping at the front door.

"I'll go," Mycroft pulled out a chair for her to sit. "Stay here."

The paramedics looked far too young to be doing their job, but they also looked very serious. "Where's the elderly lady?" the young woman demanded as she stepped through the door, her partner already opening the rear doors of the ambulance and readying the hydraulic stretcher trolley.

"There's no rush now," Mycroft felt the words leave him as the darkness slithered around inside his chest. There was all the time in the world. "Kit is in there," he gestured calmly to the doorway of the Drawing Room. "My brother's in there with her," he added. "Please ... he's very upset."

Returning to the kitchen, Mycroft saw that Ellis had put the kettle on to boil for tea, Sherlock's earlier experiments still scattered randomly across the benchtop. While the action was relatively meaningless, it gave her something to do and he watched her as she warmed the pot before throwing in a spoonful of loose leaves. He observed a growing look of confusion on her face as she stirred the tea. Replacing the lid, she paused, before turning to face him; her expression wholly innocent of duplicity.

"Mycroft, what did you mean when you told Kit you could change her?" she asked slowly. "You said you could make her like you were," Ellis frowned, turning to look at him. "What did you mean? Why did you tell her you could make the pain go away?"

He could not possibly tell her the truth, but how could he lie? Not expecting an interrogation from this particular direction at this particular time, Mycroft was unprepared. It was as if Ellis had come at him from inside the fortress; his defences were all outward-facing. He realised with some surprise, that Ellis had been on the inside for a considerable time.

About to prevaricate, to stall ... anything to avoid an immediate response, there was another loud knock on the still-open front door. Never had Mycroft felt such relief to know that the police were involved.

"Inspector," he called. "In here."

###

 _This then, was the result of Mycroft's history and heritage_ , Sherlock realised as he remained on his knees beside Kit's still form. Stroking the fine hair away from her face, he gently loosened her clenched fingers until the skin of her hands was smooth and she looked more comfortable. Her eyes were already closed, though he would have liked to have had one last conversation with her, telling her the things he had thought many times but never put into words.

There was a distant noise at the front door and new voices ... the paramedics had arrived; _seven minutes, unhelpful but not unexpected_ , he reflected as he moved the cushion more evenly beneath her head. Arranging her cardigan, he noticed one of Kit's shoes had fallen off. He would find it later.

A woman in dark green wearing a bright yellow jacket with silver reflective stripes strode into the room, a radio hung at her hip and she carried a large container marked as emergency medical equipment. The expression on the woman's face was one of concern, but not horror. She would have seen a great deal of death, Sherlock mused, as he stood to move out of the way.

"Your patient suffered terminal cardiac arrest seven minutes and fifty-four seconds ago," he said, checking his watch. "Eight minutes," he amended. "Though it was only recently diagnosed, she has ... had a worsening hypertrophic cardiomyopathy condition with a poor prognosis," he added. "Her current medication is kept in the larger of the two ovens in the kitchen."

Having already performed a critical evaluation of the old woman, where she found no apex heartbeat, no respiration and unreactive, dilated pupils, the paramedic stood, her eyes understanding. "I'm sorry she's gone," she said. "There was nothing you could have done."

"There was nothing _I_ could have done, you are correct," Sherlock agreed, dispassionately.

"Her usual doctor will need to be contacted," the woman rolled up a cardiology stethoscope, replacing it in her box of equipment. "A death certificate is required. Do you have her doctor's contact details?"

"I do not, but my ... Mycroft undoubtedly does," he blinked. "Also in the kitchen, I believe," he muttered. "This way."

Nodding, the woman lifted the box, carrying it back out along the passage to the front door where she conferred quietly with her male colleague, before following Sherlock's gesture towards a more brightly lit area where the louder sound of voices suggested the police were here.

"Can you describe this man who attacked your housekeeper?" Greg normally left such questions for Donovan or the uniforms, but this _was_ Mycroft Holmes and therefore the situation was probably best handled as discreetly as possible. "Did you know him? Have you seen him before?"

Knowing the questions were impossible for Mycroft to answer, Sherlock interrupted. "A tall, heavily-set man, long, unkempt hair, scarred face, spoke English," he said. "Looked like a tramp or some homeless addict high on ice," he added, aware such details would already have been captured on the CCTV cameras outside the house. "Never seen him before."

As Lestrade redirected his questions back towards the elder Holmes and Doctor Wilde, Sherlock stepped backwards, out of the light and away from the unwanted blare of conversation that hurt his head and made him want to lash out at something ... _anything_. He knew precisely what he had to do now, and there was very little time in which to do it.

Throwing on his coat by the semi-closed front door, he was out and down the steps of the house without the second paramedic even noticing. Walking swiftly along the side of the street, he waited until he saw a cab with its illuminated sign before throwing up his hand and impatiently counting the seconds until the vehicle pulled in.

"Bart's hospital," he directed. Extracting from his pocket the scrap of white paper he'd picked up from the floor after Kit's attack, Sherlock re-read the brief message. _The Park. 2am._ This gave him very little leeway to do what he needed to do and then return in time to challenge the vampire who had murdered his mother.


	17. in which a deadly plan is laid.

Replacing his phone in his pocket, Mycroft was satisfied his people were now alert and preparing the CCTV footage to be sent to Lestrade's team at the Yard. His thoughts were in a ferment over Kit's brutal attack and with his mind ablaze, testing and discarding one strategy after the next that might see his nemesis laid low, Mycroft was also trudging through the gamut of pedestrian questions the police had for him, thankful he'd had the foresight to call Lestrade. A decent man, though perhaps more of a plodder than an intellectual sprinter, the inspector was doing his level best to unclutter the ground of all unnecessary trivia so that the real issues might stand clear.

In the background. Mycroft's hearing picked up the sound of a wheeled trolley being drawn back towards the front door. Kit was making her final departure from the Pall Mall house that had been her last home. He knew there was no point going out there; he wouldn't be permitted to move the covering to see her face one last time. Part of him wanted to rage, either from sadness or frustration or pure fury, he wasn't sure which. It shouldn't have been this way. _Kitta Penderic deserved better than this_. For a moment, the world went red and silent as he struggled to suppress a savage desire for revenge.

"And you didn't recognise him at all? Not seen him in the area during the week?" Lestrade was tenacious.

Taking the briefest of moments to compose himself, Mycroft still managed a polite response. "No, Inspector, as I've said, I have not seen a man dressed like this at all, though I've already instructed my people to have the relevant CCTV coverage made available for your use." Maintaining his calm under the current circumstances cost more than the police could ever be permitted to know.

"'Scuse me," Sally Donovan stuck her head around the kitchen door, interrupting the questioning. "Something outside you need to see, Gov," she said cryptically.

Looking at Mycroft and the woman who had introduced herself as Ellis Wilde, a historical researcher, Greg took pity on their jointly devastated expressions. "Make some tea," he suggested. "Don't try and think too hard about this just yet, it's shock, you see," he sounded sympathetic as his disappeared down the hallway after his sergeant. The sound of multiple footsteps clumped up and down the hallway.

Ellis was leaning with her back against the sink. "Do you want tea?" she asked, her voice low and her movements almost sluggish with delayed reaction.

"It might give us something to focus on," Mycroft's brain was sizzling with things he needed to do, but he dare not have the police suspect his involvement in this; even if it only meant further questioning, it would delay him more than it already had and that he could not tolerate. And where was Sherlock? The last time he'd been here was when he'd jumped in to answer Lestrade's tricky question. Not that Mycroft couldn't have handled it, but he had to admit, Sherlock had actually eased the situation somewhat. But then he seemed to have vanished. Where was he? Damn the boy!

"I can't understand why a complete stranger would just tear in off the street and attack Kit like that," Ellis finished pouring boiling water in the pot and now she just stood, her eyes staring at nothing. "Why would anyone do that? If it was some man crazed by drugs, what made him come to _this_ house and not the one next door? And why attack her? Anyone could see she was an old lady ..." Ellis pressed a hand across her mouth.

Once again, without even realising, Mycroft was beside her, his long arms reaching around her body, bringing her close. "If you're determined to stay put and are too self-conscious to cry, feel free to pretend I'm not here," he murmured tactfully.

"I'm not really the teary type," Ellis nevertheless pressed her face hard against his tie. Just having this close contact with another body helped in some indefinable way. She leaned back in his arms to meet his eyes. "And while I have absolutely no intention of leaving London, I'm not going to be able to rest tonight, let alone sleep; I don't really want to be by myself either ..." she paused. "Would you mind awfully if I stayed here? I could sit in the ..." Ellis was about to say 'Drawing Room' but changed her mind. It would be impossible to ever go back into that room without seeing an image of Kit lying on the sofa. "I could stay in here," she muttered warily, holding herself very still and close within the circle of his arms, as if the act of being in his embrace had yet to sink in.

Mycroft's thoughts had been so full of the tracking and capture of Daveth, and of Sherlock's disappearance and possible whereabouts, he'd given barely a moment's consideration to Ellis and how she must be feeling. Closing his eyes briefly in chagrin, he tightened his grip incrementally. Not only must she stay here, in the comparative security of the Pall Mall house, _she_ _dare not be allowed to leave during the hours of darkness_. Assuming Daveth was restrained by the same weaknesses as himself, then the man, or whatever he had become, would find it difficult to walk abroad during the brightest daylight. Had it been midsummer, Mycroft would have been happier; bright sunlight, though not lethal, sent him into somnolence so deep it verged upon coma. Daveth would be the same, he imagined. That they were just past the deepest part of winter meant the days were shorter, such sunlight as appeared was weaker and night came more swiftly. Winter's darkness was definitely the vampire's friend. Thus, he dare not let Ellis Wilde be anywhere beyond his company outside the hours of daylight, certainly not until he had caught up with Daveth and successfully implemented one of a half-dozen plans already formulating in his mind.

"If you refuse to depart London, then I agree that you must stay here," grasping her shoulders gently, he held her so that he could see into her eyes. "But until the police have identified and caught this person, I cannot bear the idea that you too might be in danger," he admitted quietly. "Kit was my dearest friend, but she wasn't the only one for whom I am concerned," he added. "Until we know who this man is and why he attacked her, then you, Sherlock and myself are all potential victims and I cannot ..." his voice cracked a little. " _I will not_ permit anything to happen to either you or Sherlock," he said eventually. "Please ... put my mind at least partly at rest. Accept my hospitality in this house until the murderer is caught," he continued. "There are guest rooms aplenty; choose one. Or take my suite and I'll stay down here if it makes you feel more comfortable," he offered, almost entreatingly. "If you left this place and were attacked ..." he hung his head, no words needed.

This was an extrapolation well beyond her own thoughts and Ellis blinked. That Kit might not have been the intended victim ... that it might instead have been Mycroft or his younger brother ... she discounted herself, for who would have any reason to want her dead?

"I can't imagine that the man ... the attacker ... would have been after me," Ellis frowned, her eyes showing her uncertainty. "I don't even live here," she added. "If he was after anyone," she paused again, slowly lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. "It was probably you."

"And if he knew I was home, then he would have known you had accompanied me here," Mycroft was not above using alarmist tactics if it meant her safety. "Anyone prepared to attack Kit would stop at nothing in order to achieve his objective," he muttered bitterly. "Please say you'll stay here. I'll arrange for a female security guard to stay here as well, if it makes you more comfortable."

It finally dawned on Ellis that Mycroft was entirely serious about keeping her here not only tonight, but for the foreseeable future. That he was prepared to go to such lengths in consideration of her personal safety was oddly comforting. "What about Sherlock?" Ellis was uneasy again. "The man might have been after him."

"And I am going to find out where the hell my brother has gone and get him back here even if I have to have him arrested to effect such a return," Mycroft groaned and closed his eyes in frustration. "Sherlock has ever been headstrong, even as a child," he growled. "Always rushing off into the wildest of scrapes and dangerous situations," he shook his head. "And I have a dreadful premonition that Kit's death will have affected him very badly; she was everything a mother could have been for a young boy."

"Your mother died when Sherlock was a child?" despite the horror of the night, Ellis couldn't stop her mind focusing on the historical elements of any situation. "But you can't have been more that a child yourself," she stared into his face. "What are you, surely no more than six or seven years older than your brother?"

Again, Mycroft managed to refrain from sharing information which Ellis Wilde could not possibly be expected to understand. Nor was this the time for such a conversation.

"It's a complex story," he said. "I'll tell you more when all this is over," he rubbed his forehead.

Though she would have sworn she'd not sleep tonight, Ellis rested her head against his chest again and closed her eyes, for some reason barely able to keep them open. "I don't want to sleep yet I feel incredibly weary," she whispered.

"Shock, probably," Mycroft felt his arms slide around her as before, her shape and warmth a great and remembered comfort. _Beryan_. "The house is now as secure as any place in the British Isles," he spoke quietly but with absolute conviction. "The upstairs windows are all impenetrable from the outside; the doors are now in secure locking mode; the house is a fortress," he added. "Will you stay here tonight? Please?"

Since there was nobody expecting her home and she really didn't want to be alone tonight of all nights, the suggestion was attractive. "Yes Mycroft," Ellis nodded against his chest. "I'll stay."

"Then take my room," he suggested. "I'll have to stay down here for the police and to let Sherlock in when he returns. You could doze in the Library or any of the smaller sitting rooms, but I'd prefer you to get as much proper sleep as you can, if possible. Leave all the lights on if you wish and either lock the door or leave it open as you prefer; whatever makes you feel safe."

The sudden image of the golden Beryan sleeping in his bed had him holding air in his chest that he no longer needed. But now was not the time for _that_ conversation either.

###

Outside, the temperate evening though cold, had left the pavement dry. The inch-thick accumulation of mud in the gutter at the kerbside however, was still quite damp. And soft. Soft indeed, yet sufficiently firm to have retained the imprint of a line of several small round dots, the type that might appear after being in contact with the steel tip of a man's umbrella. Several spots of mud had been carried up and onto the dried paving stones. There were a goodly number of faint dots.

"It could be the same guy, _Gov_ ," Donovan shone a very bright torch down at the ground.

"Mycroft Holmes uses the same kind of umbrella," Lestrade wasn't quite as keep as his sergeant to accept the possibility that the recent attack had been carried out by the vampire killer. "He admitted that he and Doctor Wilde walked here from Trafalgar Square tonight; the marks might have occurred then."

"Yeah, _except_ ," Sally Donovan pointed eastwards down the street in the direction of London's most famous square and landmark. "Trafalgar's _that_ way, and _these_ marks," following the line of the small dots, she pointed her hand in opposite direction, "came from along _here_."

_If it was the man they were after, then this let Mycroft Holmes off the hook entirely, just when he was starting to look interesting._

"If it _is_ the same guy, then our killer's gone off on a wild tangent," Greg didn't like the idea much. Once a violent criminal started getting creative, all bets were off and anything could happen at any time. The Chief Commissioner would be a deeply unhappy man if this were to be the case. "One minute he's orchestrating repeats of twin-killings in remote or derelict commercial premises, setting the scene like some kind of sicko theatre, and the next ..." Greg waved at the large closed door behind him. " _This?_ " He looked sour. "I need more than these marks before I tell the Supe that our mad murderer has just gone a bit madder."

Donovan lifted her eyes high and pivoted in a full circle, nodding as she did. "There's at least a half-dozen CCTV cameras on the immediate buildings," she said. "Means we've got a good chance of getting whoever did this on record," she said.

Which made Greg's soul warm just a little bit. To actually have the bastard that did this on camera, whether he was the vampire killer or not, made a hell of a difference. Having mental cases going around tackling old grannies was not the kind of stuff that made Britain great. All violence was bad, but violence against those least able to defend themselves was despicable. If there was any way they could catch this guy, Greg swore he'd see the man's nuts in a door if given half a chance.

And if, by any chance, it _was_ the vampire killer ... Lestrade pursed his mouth. There might be a DCI's desk in it for him.

"Holmes is getting his people to send us the CCTV coverage," he mused out loud, following the path that Sally's eyes had so recently taken, though more slowly. Greg was able to make out ten different cameras in the immediate vicinity. That was an awful lot of the devices for any specific area not under terrorist alert. To have so many in an area considered primarily residential, or at least, _semi_ -residential, was significant. That Mycroft Holmes had offered the camera footage so easily argued it was something he was able to do on a regular basis, and implied he had sufficient authority to make such a promise a reality. In itself, this said a great deal about the man and even more about the kind of job he did and the level of responsibility he held in that job. Whatever it was. "When you get it, I want the footage of this area scanned from both directions for the hour prior to the attack," he said. "I want to know when the attacker arrived at this spot, if he arrived on foot or in a car, if he carried an umbrella and _if_ , most especially, we can get a decent shot of his face," he nodded thoughtfully. "Whether it's our vampire killer or not makes no difference. I'm not having some vicious murdering fuck knocking off little old ladies on _my_ watch," he muttered sourly, heading back into the house. "Any problems, you send them _straight_ to me," he ordered, stepping back inside the house and closing the door behind him.

###

A big hospital like Bart's never actually stopped. It never closed its doors and never really fell quiet or became deserted in the conventional sense. This was not a state of affairs that worked in Sherlock's favour tonight as he made his way back down towards the Pathology labs. He needed to return to his analysis of Mycroft's blood, not, in this instance, to compare it to the DNA of the vampire killer, but to _weaponise_ it. The problem was there were still too many people hanging around the place, and for what Sherlock wanted to do it was fairly critical that there be no witnesses. Nor could he afford to wait if he wanted to keep the appointment Kit's murderer had so conveniently made by means of a deliberately dropped piece of paper. Was it a trap? Of course, though a trap no doubt intended for Mycroft. That the creature who had killed Kit was a vampire and obviously the same one who had been wreaking havoc across London since before Christmas, Sherlock had no doubt. It was the same individual, no matter that his attack tonight bore no resemblance to his earlier theatrics; the umbrella tracks, the cigarettes, the vampiric blood-letting. Those had been purely to have eyes turn towards Mycroft, perhaps in order to wreck his life and career, perhaps to give Mycroft the feeling of being hunted. Who knew? Clearly, that approach was either taking too long, or the killer had suddenly discovered some reason for haste. Sherlock contemplated what that reason might be. It wasn't that anything was likely to happen to Mycroft in the near future; though ancient, Mycroft had not changed physically one whit as far as Sherlock could discern. Which argued he was as fit and healthy – in vampire terms – as he had been thirty years before. Nor was there any event or situation arising in the near future likely to change that. Therefore, the killer was in a hurry for a different reason and one, given the man's physical state, more probably related to his _own_ person.

Sherlock had caught only the merest glimpse of the killer as he fled back out through the open door of the Pall Mall house, but it was a glimpse full of data. The creature's face, the scarred damage, the colour and tone of his skin spoke volumes about the vampire's vitality, or rather, the absence of such a thing. If Mycroft was the picture of a healthy vampire, then the image now burned into Sherlock's memory was that of an exact opposite. While he'd not consider himself an authority on vampiric wellbeing, having one as a parent for more than thirty years must count for something. He'd wager all the gold bars in Mycroft's house that Kit's killer was dying. There was a chance that Mycroft had made the same deductions, but there were other demands on Mycroft's attention and the meeting was scheduled for tonight. _The Park. 2am._

Anyone not local to the area might imagine the note to mean a meeting in the very large St James's Park that ran the length of the Mall from Buckingham Palace to Horse Guards Parade. However, to those people who _did_ live in the vicinity, there was only one 'Park', the much smaller St James's Square that was literally a few minutes' walk from Mycroft's house. It would have been impossible to find anyone in St James's Park, but meeting someone in St James's _Square_ meant they'd be able to see the whites of each other's eyes. Sherlock knew without question that this was where Kit's killer planned to be tonight. He intended to be there too.

But first, he needed a weapon that would kill a vampire.

Living with Mycroft all these years had given Sherlock an intimate acquaintance with the care and husbandry of the modern British vampire. Mycroft rarely required his 'transfusions' more than once each year now, though each event took at least two days to endure; one for the actual infusion and another for the recovery. Surprisingly, Mycroft seemed to require no intake of blood or anything else during the interim other than regular amounts of high-proofed spirits. He avoided all solid foods, but seemed to find pleasure in the imbibing of top-shelf scotch, therefore organic poison would be useless against him. He didn't sleep, though he could tolerate a surprising amount of natural daylight before he sought cover. He had never, to Sherlock's knowledge, changed into a bat or a mist, which would have made him a great deal more interesting as a Guardian. Considering the wicked Japanese blade down in the subterranean bunker, he could be killed by blood loss and possibly fire, though judging by the design of his escape tunnels, probably not water. Mycroft did not require air, thus nothing he might 'breathe' would likely do him harm, so gaseous weapons were almost certainly ineffective too. Fortunately, Sherlock planned on using none of these methods to kill Kit's murderer.

In the tests he had run last night in the biosafety lab, he had used exactly half of the large vial of Mycroft's blood. What was left was sufficient for his purpose, especially as he proposed to bulk it up with other potential vampire-destroying vectors. But in order to create this bespoke vampiric death-potion, he needed to get back into the lab he'd occupied last night. This was not going to be such an easy thing two nights in a row. No doubt whoever used it during the day had complained about the mess it had been left in, and thus people around the labs would be being extra cautious and watchful. Therefore, Sherlock needed both access to the facilities and an interim cover in case he was stopped.

Molly Hooper would enable him in both endeavours.

" _Hello_ , Molly," Sherlock stood over her desk, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, a cool expression of mystery wiping most expression from his face. With his eyelids half-lowered, he knew it gave him an enigmatic air the pathologist found appealing, though he had no idea why.

"Sherlock! You made me jump," Doctor Hooper smiled up at him. "Back again? Still working on the Met's forensic analysis?"

"I am," he nodded. "I wanted to make sure I wasn't imposing myself on your more than generous willingness to ... accommodate me," his smile was low and slow and he watched the woman's eyes dilate fractionally.

"Oh, anytime," Molly almost simpered. "Whenever you need accommodating, I'm your, um, pathologist!" she squeaked, realising, too late, that she was gushing. Clearing her through and swallowing hard, she took a deep breath and met his eyes squarely. "What do you need?"

Despite his ability to fluster her to distraction, Sherlock had to admit that Molly Hooper was nothing if not a determined and conscientious professional. It was wrong of him to tease her ... though she made it almost impossible not to.

"I want the white container I left in your main refrigerator and I need you to cover for me so I can get into the biosafety lab."

As the extent of the request sank in, Molly frowned. "Someone got in last night and left it in an ungodly mess," she said, pausing. "Was that you?"

"The matter was urgent and I was in a hurry," he didn't even blink at the question. No display of shame or guilt would assist him at this juncture, so he didn't bother pretending he had either. "It's critical, Molly," he said. "I need your help; there are people's lives at stake here," he added, pausing. "Including mine."

"Your life is in danger?" Molly looked up at him from behind her desk. "Seriously?"

Puffing out his cheeks in an abrupt exhale, Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yu _p_. I need to finish off what I began before I leave here tonight. Tomorrow will be too late."

Getting to her feet, Molly thought for a moment before making up her mind. "I'll help you get back into the lab," she said. "And I'll even clean up after you, on one condition."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Sherlock was cautious. "What do you want?"

"I want you to tell me what this is all about and what your experiments and results are," Molly's eyes were bright and sharp. "You come in here, swanning around like you owned the place, but there's no professional courtesy, no collegiality, no sharing of data," she looked momentarily brooding. "And that's not good enough." Doctor Hooper took another breath. "I'm happy to help you out and carry the can for it if I must, but only if you promise to share your findings with me. That's what I want."

"Deal," Sherlock opened the big fridge and pulled the heavy door towards him; the small white container was nestled in a lower corner. He turned, indicating the door. "Shall we?"

"I don't have the new combination yet," Molly murmured as she escorted Sherlock down the empty corridor. "It was changed as soon as the lab was found to be in such a state; we all imagined a vandal had got in somehow."

" _Mea culpa_ ," Sherlock looked around without looking as if her were looking around. The coast was still clear. "And I don't need the combination." Slipping into the recessed doorway, he bent down to check it was only the combination that had been changed, not the lock itself. It was the same lock. As before, it was the matter of no more than three minutes effort before the final tumbler clicked into place and the heavy lock cranked open. Peering around the edge of the doorway it seemed, miraculously, that the corridor was still deserted of lab technicians. All he needed now was a few hours of uninterrupted workspace.

"Thank you Molly, you may have literally saved my life tonight," he spoke softly, leaning forward and placing an impulsive kiss on her cheek. "Now please go away before anyone sees you," he added, stepping back into the darkness of the lab, closing the door behind him. If the new lock combination hadn't yet been made public knowledge, then so much the better for him; interruption would be less likely.

The lab was indeed much tidier and ... he sniffed ... even more disinfected than the previous night. Even in the dim lighting, the entire room sparkled. Returning to the same secluded corner he'd used previously, he unloaded his cargo, opening it and laying out everything he needed to make a lethal cocktail. This time he knew exactly what he had to do, needing no laptop or spreadsheet to show the way. Taking off his coat and jacket, he began by rolling up his sleeve. There was half a vial left of Mycroft's blood, yes, but that wouldn't be nearly enough to make the volume of bio-poison he needed, so first, he'd have to increase the amount of sample he had to work with. Extracting several sealed blood sample collection kits, he wrapped a rubber tourniquet around his upper arm and waited for a vein to rise. Discarding all but the plain tube vacuettes – coagulation was not going to be an issue this evening – Sherlock soon had six filled tubes lying on the benchtop beside him. He might need even more later, but this should be sufficient to start with. Tipping a small portion of Mycroft's chilled blood into a larger clear test tube, he added half a tube of his own and sat back to watch the fun.

###

The ambulance had taken the old woman away and Greg found himself once more inside the big house, heading towards the kitchen. Virtually every light on the ground floor was on providing an incongruous, almost party-like gaiety to the place. He heard the sound of low voices ahead and couldn't help but overhear the last couple of sentences.

"And just where _is_ Sherlock?" he asked, stepping fully into the light. "I know he was here before, but then he seemed to scarper and now nobody can remember the last time they saw him, though I'd say he's been gone a good hour."

Turning to face him, Lestrade saw that Mycroft kept an arm around the historian woman's shoulders. _So that was the way the wind was blowing_.

"I agree, Inspector, though like you, I'm at a loss at to my brother's whereabouts. It may be that he has simply gone for a walk in an attempt to deal with the shock of Kit's death; she had been a mother to him since he was nine, you see."

"A mother to the both of you, you mean?" Greg frowned. "When your parents died."

"Yes, of course," Mycroft raised a hand to his brow. "Forgive me, my mind is ..."

Ellis stepped forward, unwilling to see Mycroft distressed any more than he already had been. "Inspector, can't this wait until tomorrow? Both Sherlock and Mycroft are clearly in the early stages of shock and grief. I had only known Kit for a little while, but even _I_ ..." she blinked hard and swallowed as her throat tightened.

"Yeah, I can understand. It's never an easy thing, specially not at first," he sighed, his face sombre. It was hard to believe that anyone like the two Holmes boys might actually be genuinely grief-stricken, but Greg had to admit, it was starting to look that way.

"Until the man who perpetrated this vile act is caught, Inspector, I have suggested that Doctor Wilde should stay here with Sherlock and I, especially since there is no clear indication as to who the madman was actually after; it would hardly have been Kit Penderic."

"I agree," Lestrade nodded thoughtfully. At least it meant all his witnesses would be in the same place. Assuming Sherlock returned home, of course. "Sherlock wouldn't have known the attacker but said nothing about it, would he?" Greg had the oddest feeling in his chest. He had grown to like the younger man, despite his arrogance and rudeness. Apart from possessing one of the cleverest and most brilliant minds he'd ever known, there was a core of indestructible righteousness that drove straight through Sherlock's heart. He might never be the kind of man that society would easily tolerate, but there was diamond and steel inside him and to Lestrade, that made all the difference. It also made Sherlock behave in dangerously erratic ways.

The thought that Sherlock might be going off on his own private vendetta had crossed Mycroft's mind only seconds after he realised the boy had vanished. There was a reason he had disappeared so precipitously that had nothing to do with grief but probably a great deal more to do with violence.

"Find my brother, Inspector," Mycroft's deep blue eyes were hard and troubled as he held the police officer's gaze. "I fear you may be correct in that he knows more than he has let us believe. If he had any intentions of locating Kit's killer on his own ..."

Mycroft felt his entire body grow stiff and unwieldy at the idea that Sherlock might be Daveth's next victim.


	18. in which lives are changed forever.

The biosafety lab wasn't in quite the same level of shambles it have been in the previous evening. This time Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted and precisely how to get it. There were no more tests for him to do; he already had all the proof he would ever need that not only was Mycroft a vampire, but that his old guardian was a most _potent_ vampire. Judging by the rapidity with which his blood overcame and devoured every other sample it came near, he had no doubt that even if it was slowed somewhat by a less acquiescent opponent, it would still put up an unwavering assault. This was precisely what he hoped for, since any human attack against Kit's murderer, a vampire still at his normal strength, would have a high likelihood of failure. Fatally high.

As the last batch of his own blood was being transmogrified by Mycroft's, Sherlock judged the amount of active vampiric solution he had now would be sufficient to fill the two large hypodermic syringes already liberated from one of the drawers in the lab. The syringes were massive, more suited for use on farm livestock than on humans. The corresponding steel needles were things of nightmare, each one several inches long and of a significant gauge, at least a quarter of an inch in diameter. Anyone getting stuck with one of these would surely feel it for weeks. Getting stuck with two of them simultaneously, each one delivering a virulently toxic payload directly into the bloodstream ... One would easily be enough to kill a normal man. He hoped two might be sufficient to slow a vampire.

Sherlock's plan was simple of necessity. Get close enough to stab Daveth with a double-dose of Mycroft's distilled blood then, hopefully while the monster was distracted; kill him with the bundle of extra-large scalpels that lay beside his hand, already taped solidly together to form a thick short pillar of wickedly bladed steel. If he could do sufficient damage, it was possible that Kit's killer would die. However, Sherlock had no illusions about the possibility of his own death, which was why he was also carrying an illegal and fully-loaded MK23 which he kept in the hospital locker Molly Hooper had put at his disposal. Having serendipitously discovered it carefully hidden among the effects of a recent murder-victim, he had stashed it away before his tame pathologist or police inspector ever knew of its existence. He would return it to the hospital locker after his meeting tonight. Assuming he was still alive to do so.

The one nagging concern about the inevitable physical conflict with Kit's killer was not in regard to his own death; no, he was far too pragmatic to imagine his plan might be successful without demanding the ultimate sacrifice which, after the briefest of reflections, he was quite willing to make. No, his concern was about time. Speed and time. The creature who had caused the premature demise of his adopted mother was _fast_. Despite his incredible age and what appeared to have been horrific battle-scars and a severe limp, the man moved with a preternatural speed that might ruin any assassination plan before he'd had any opportunity to implement it. If they met in St James's Square later that night and the killer decided to wipe Sherlock off the face of the earth without bothering to even listen to what he had to say, then his plan, no matter how simple, would fail ignominiously and he was doomed. Somehow, Sherlock needed to find a way of distracting the vampire long enough to let him get close. Very, _very_ close.

The thought occurred that for once, he really could use Mycroft's assistance; who better to distract a vampire but another vampire? Between them, they might even stand a decent chance of overcoming the monster who had killed Kit. Yet Sherlock knew full well that once Mycroft was involved, his erstwhile guardian would not only forbid any attempt at a physical assault, but might easily have Sherlock taken into protective custody in order to ensure his inability to launch any such risky plan. He scowled, his eyes flickering over the final batch of bright red human blood on the screen of an electron microscope as the last dancing constituents of humanity were rapidly being transformed and replaced by darker, slower molecules. The normal human erythrocytes and leukocytes were already becoming something unimaginably different. A true killer's blood.

And all he needed now was someone to use it on.

###

Having decided to take him up on his offer to stay for the night, Ellis elected to curl up in one of the library's great leather chairs rather than seek the lonely solace of a proper bed on the floor above. At her request, Mycroft had left all the wall lights switched on around the massive room which provided ample ambient light without being overly brilliant. He also left all the doors open, assuring her that even if he were not always in the library with her, she need only call his name and he would be with her in seconds. Leaving her covered with a light silk quilt, he waited until her eyes closed and her body relaxed in repose, though there was little sign of peace on her face and he doubted her sleep would be entirely serene. Not wanting to disturb what rest she might find, Mycroft made his silent passage towards the Drawing Room where the sofa still bore the last imprint of Kit's body. He could not bear to look at it and swiftly found another large blanket with which to cover the entire piece of furniture. A sudden flare of rage had him wanting to burn the thing; rip it to pieces and torch the fragments, but there was a more pressing call upon his attention and there was no place for anger. Not yet. _Not yet_. He would wrap his anger up inside a private bundle of grief and keep it quiescent until there was time to mourn his old friend properly and as befitted her place in his life.

No, right now his thoughts were focused entirely on Sherlock. Where had he gone? What scheme had possessed his thoughts?

It had been immediately obvious to Mycroft that Sherlock had rushed off, not because he was affected by shock, or to grieve Kit's untimely loss in grim isolation as the inspector had assumed, but because the younger man's fertile mind had already concocted some misguided plan of retribution. Such an intention, no matter how determined it might be, would inevitably fail and there would be two bodies in the mortuary this night, not one. _No_. The very idea that Sherlock might be Daveth's next victim was anathema and, loath though he was to show his hand, he lifted his phone and called his department watch officer for the second time that evening.

"Activate protocol _Prodigal Son_ ," he directed, holding the phone tight to his ear as he waited.

"Protocol activated, sir," the quiet response was immediate and unquestioning. "Satellite tracking now. We should have a position any moment ..." There was the faint sound of a keyboard being tapped. "Subject currently located within Bart's Hospital, sir," the restrained voice continued. "Seems to be holding steady; subject is apparently stationary at this time."

"Thank you," Mycroft gave no outward sign, but he felt his chest release some of its tension. "Has the retrieval team been alerted?"

"Already on their way, sir," the unobtrusive voice maintained a calm narration. "At this time of night and with the cold weather, traffic is minimal. ETA five minutes."

 _Why was Sherlock at Bart's hospital?_ It was quite possible that Kit's body might be taken there, but surely the boy wouldn't have … Mycroft furrowed his forehead. There had to be more to it. He knew Sherlock had been introduced to staff at the Pathology department there … it was more likely the boy was working on something that was time-critical, possibly to offer a distraction from the night's horror.

"Maintain close surveillance ..." he paused, biting his lower lip. "Use of physical restraint is authorised if necessary, though I would prefer no obvious scene be made," he added. "Have the subject brought to my Pall Mall address without delay. Report any deviance from plan immediately," Mycroft ended the call and straightened his back, his shoulders dropping an entire inch as the built-up tension eased a little. Assuming Sherlock came willingly and without undue fuss, the retrieval team would have him back in Pall Mall in less than twenty minutes. While Sherlock was never one to eat when he was on one of his 'cases', Mycroft knew a sure way to slow the younger man down was to feed him. He was already heading towards the kitchen to make sandwiches and tea even as he slid the phone back into his jacket pocket.

The tea had been steeping for less than a minute by the time Mycroft heard the car pull up outside the door. The police and forensic people were still working the area, though they had moved their vehicles across to the far side of the road so that the CCTV cameras might maintain an unobstructed view of the front of the house. There had been no further reports of Daveth in the area and Mycroft held the front door open as an infuriated Sherlock was escorted, without any obvious restraints or bloodied wounds, up the steps.

"Welcome home," Mycroft's words to Sherlock were so low as to be virtually inaudible. He turned back to the three large men still waiting on the steps of the house. Nodding that he had officially taken charge of the subject his _thank you_ was discreet but heartfelt.

The second the front door closed the outside world away, Sherlock rounded on Mycroft in the hallway, a particularly nasty expression twisting his features.

"Couldn't bear to let me out of your _sight_ , brother?" he snarled, a livid glare in his eyes. "Couldn't even be bothered to come looking _yourself?_ Had to call in one of your goon squads?"

"Sherlock. Be quiet," Mycroft gestured towards the kitchen. "Doctor Wilde is ... "

"Oh, _please_ cease the masquerade," Sherlock snapped, glaring at the older man. "Regardless of how long you've known the woman, she's not been 'Doctor Wilde' for some time now, has she?" he challenged. "I think tonight is a good night for truths, don't you? Have you fallen in love with her despite Kit's amateurish attempts at matchmaking or because of it?"

 _Love?_ Mycroft barely stopped himself from rearing back in shock. He did not love Ellis Wilde ... did he? He admired her, he enjoyed her company, he found her amusing and fascinating ... And then, of course, there was the fact that her physical appearance was so hauntingly familiar ... _Beryan_. Love? It was impossible ... and yet. Surely, Sherlock was imagining things ... but he had trained the boy to observe rather than imagine. What had Sherlock seen? _What had he deduced?_

"... Ellis is asleep in the Library and I'd rather she remained that way," he continued deliberately. "I suppose it's no great secret that her company pleases me and …" he paused, frowning to himself as they walked into the kitchen. "But yes," he added honestly. "I have found myself thinking seriously about Ellis Wilde a great deal in recent days," he pursed his mouth. "However, this has been a shocking night for all of us and I'm not really in the mood to discuss my love-life or lack of it," he added. " _Here_ ," he made to pull out a chair and changed his mind, opting for another one when he realised the first had been Kit's habitual seat. "Sit. I've made tea and I want you to tell me what you've been cooking up at Bart's. There was no reason for you to go there tonight, and if you had given in to the urge to mourn Kit, you would have gone to that bench she always frequents … frequented, in the park."

 _The Park. 2am_. Sherlock avoided displaying the slightest indication either by sign or sound that might suggest Mycroft's words had startled him and in any normal crowd of people, nobody would have noticed a thing. But his current audience was far from normal. The small stretch of silence between them flared with awareness.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Mycroft's question was sharp and yet simultaneously tentative as if he wanted the knowledge but was fearful of stampeding the younger man. "What's happening that you don't want me to know about?"

It was worth a try. "Nothing at all," still wrapped in his long winter coat, Sherlock allowed himself to sprawl in the kitchen chair, as if such a casual dismissal of the conversation's tedium might mask his intense desire not to be interrogated on the topic.

Leaving the kettle, Mycroft took the seat facing his ward and allowed his stare to roam across Sherlock's face, noting every small detail. The particular shadows beneath his eyes, the faintest bloodshot striations and the blurred mercurial blue of his gaze. The need of a shave, the tiniest of nicks where the previous shave had been just a fraction too rushed; the angle of his mouth and the suppressed tension in the several muscles of the jaw. There was no question about it; Sherlock was lying through his teeth.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows as the younger man's gaze slid away but said nothing and returned to the kettle.

 _Damn_ , _damn_ _and_ _damn_. As soon as he saw the eyebrows twitch, he knew he'd been found out. A sour expression curling the corners of his mouth downwards, Sherlock rested the side of his face in his hand and closed his eyes. Bloody Mycroft.

The clink of china and the sound of a spoon stirring the contents of the pot proceeded the soft noises of crockery and silverware being placed on the table. Sherlock kept his eyes closed. Hopefully, he might yet be able to salvage the situation.

"So exactly what is it to do with the park …" Mycroft paused contemplatively as he poured the tea, his eyes widening slightly, his head tilting in thought. "Or perhaps I should say _The_ Park?" the upwards inflection of his words made Sherlock wince. Even with his eyes and mouth closed, it seemed he couldn't keep a secret. "You may as well tell me," the old vampire added, pushing a plate of sandwiches across the table towards the younger man. "You know I can read your mind."

It was a very old joke; so old Sherlock couldn't even remember when it had started. As a nine-year old child, even one so precocious and swift to learn as he, he had never been able to hide things from his guardian, not the important things. While the child had never really attempted to hide anything, it had been more of a game for Mycroft to deduce Sherlock's activities and motivations, and he'd begun the joke that he was able to read the boy's thoughts. Sherlock opened his eyes to find them locked unwillingly with a darker blue pair.

"No you can't," he muttered, stretching out a hand to pull a filled cup closer to him. "But you're were always obnoxious enough to try and make me believe you could. Fine parent you turned out to be."

"I have been the perfect parent for you, Sherlock," Mycroft sipped from his own cup. "I ensured that you would never wish to isolate yourself from me in your own lonely world of secrets," he said. "Such a thing would have been very bad for the both of us." Lifting his eyes and his eyebrows again, he waited. "Are you going to tell me or are we to continue the game?" he asked. "Though I'd have thought it might have palled after all these years."

Replacing his cup, Sherlock pondered his options. Mycroft could not actually _force_ the information from him, though there was always the possibility that he might be able to piece a picture together from the most tenuous threads of evidence. He already surmised that something was up involving St James's Square and that Sherlock had attempted to withhold that fact from him. It wouldn't take an awful lot more before he had the entire picture, or enough of it to make a useful deduction. Therefore, to conceal or reveal? The hot bite of tea in his throat seemed to help clarify his decision.

Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock withdrew the small note Kit's killer had dropped. _The Park. 2am_. "I plan on being there," he said.

Mycroft had never told his ward the full story of Daveth, had never felt it necessary considering he had thought the old vampire dead and gone these many years. He knew if Sherlock faced Daveth tonight, only one of them would walk away and it probably wouldn't be the young man drinking tea beside him.

He sighed heavily and even though he had little use for it, the weight of breath leaving his body left him almost limp. "There is something I should have told you a long time ago," he said. "It concerns the vampire who made _me_ ," Mycroft paused, looking across the table. "His name is Daveth as once my own name was Mycurrought," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "As I had refused to follow the conventions of our kind and create a vampire apprentice of my own, he swore to kill me and those around me, thus I felt it incumbent to strike pre-emptively."

Still feeling the heat of the tea in his mouth, Sherlock allowed the information to flow through his mind. "You killed the vampire who turned _you_ into a vampire?" he stated. "How?"

"Daveth himself once told me there were only three ways to end one of us," Mycroft sat back in his chair and pursed his mouth. "By fire or sword or in the depths of the earth," he quoted, making a rueful face. "I exploded the clifftop castle he used as his lair and saw him buried beneath several hundred-thousand tons of good Cornish granite almost thirty years ago, but clearly my method was insufficiently foolproof," he sounded bitter. "The beast still lives," he said, his eyes growing dark and sombre. "He killed Kit."

The crack of the porcelain teacup shattering in Sherlock's fingers echoed around the kitchen.

"Kit died because you botched an execution?"

"Yes," Mycroft made no move to defend himself.

There was a cold, dragging silence.

"I want to be the one who ends him," Sherlock muttered. "I will have that satisfaction."

"Not if he kills you first, Sherlock," Mycroft slid his hand flat across the tabletop towards his erstwhile ward. "I beg you not to take such a foolhardy risk."

"Why not?" Sherlock lifted his eyes. "Why not take the risk? According to you, he'll probably come after me one way or another in any case, so why not take the risk? He can only kill me once."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Sherlock," Mycroft fetched a fresh cup and poured some more tea. "Daveth's perfect revenge might be to turn you, as he once turned me."

"Make me into another vampire?" Sherlock sat back in his chair, a genuine smile lifting his lips. "Perfect! At least them I could tackle the bastard on his own level."

"I do not wish that life for anyone," Mycroft shook his head slowly. "You joke, but it is not the kind of life in which you would thrive; I speak as an expert."

Sighing loudly himself, Sherlock sank back in the chair. "Then what?" he demanded. "We do nothing? _You_ do nothing? Impossible. If we cannot, between us, construct a potentially successful plan to remove this evil from the earth, then what are we on this planet for? I might as well face Daveth and be done with it."

"What do you have in mind?" Mycroft half-lidded his eyes. Regardless of the situation, he found himself intrigued. What stratagem might Sherlock propose?

Staring assessingly at his guardian's carefully blanked expression; Sherlock twisted his mouth before reaching deep into a pocket of his coat to pull out a heavy, cloth-wrapped bundle which he placed delicately on the table. "This is what I have in mind," he said, slowly peeling back the fabric, eventually revealing two very large hypodermic syringes with equally large needles, each one capped by a heavy-duty plastic sheath. Both syringes contained a dark, purple-red liquid.

From the faint scent immediately in the air, Mycroft refrained from asking what was in the syringes. It was obvious. "Mine, of course?"

Nodding, Sherlock picked up one of the syringes and held it up to the light. "An appropriate weapon, I thought."

Blinking slowly, Mycroft wondered if the boy was correct. If the blood of a vampire was enough to transform a human into something so inherently inhuman, then how might such blood affect one of their own?

"I doubt it would be sufficient to kill Daveth," he said eventually. "Though I am speculating. I have no useful data."

"Which is why I also have this," Sherlock reached into his other outside coat pocket, extracting another cloth-wrapped bundle. Placing it on the table between them, he unwrapped this one as carefully as the first. A bound bundle of steel rods, blunt at one end while the other bristled with a vicious phalanx of razors currently transfixing a thick chunk of polystyrene with their tempered, blue-steel points.

"Reminds me of the Roman fasces," Mycroft reached over and carefully removed the white plastic block. The bright metal blades reflected dazzlingly in the kitchen lights. _Death by sword_. "Another good idea, though I fear that even this would be insufficient to kill the creature Daveth has become."

"Which is why I also have _this_." Reaching this time into an inner pocket, Sherlock produced the blackly cumbersome MK23 and laid it softly on the wooden table between them. "It's fully loaded."

The stopping power of the weapon was well known even to those beyond the armed services and Mycroft was intimately acquainted with the weapon's qualities. _Death by fire?_

"You'd need to be awfully close to use both the syringes and the scalpels," Mycroft looked off into middle distance. "Awfully close."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "I would."

"So close in fact, that unless there was some sort of effective distractions, you would almost certainly be killed," Mycroft nodded again, his eyes as dark and distant as the far-off sea.

"Almost certainly."

"The thought occurs that I might be able to assist you in this endeavour," the corners of Mycroft's mouth curved slowly upwards as he turned back to the younger man.

"As a distraction?" Sherlock lifted his eyebrows.

"As a decoy," Mycroft reached across the table for the pistol. "You forget my military experience," he cocked an eyebrow as he swiftly field-stripped then reassembled the weapon. "I am rather a good shot with these things," he mused, deftly chambering the cartridge of bullets in the hefty pistol. "I imagine I'd be able to get several accurate shots off before Daveth could get too close," extending his arm, he sighted various distances around the kitchen. "It might be enough to fix his focus on me rather than anything else," he said. "At least for a little while."

"How long?" leaning forward, Sherlock traced the tip of his finger across the sheathed point of a syringe.

"Long enough," Mycroft hefted the weight of the gun in his hand. "Not for the faint of heart," he raised his chin, a vague expression of adventure lighting his face. "For Queen and Country?" he suggested, a faint devilry in the line of his mouth.

"For Kit," Sherlock was unsmiling.

Mycroft nodded, inhaling softly. "For Kit," he agreed. "More tea?"

###

Ellis wasn't sure what had disturbed her less than satisfactory sleep. It wasn't cold in the Library, though she realised Mycroft was no longer there with her. Sitting up in the big leather chair, the soft blanket covering her legs slipped to the floor. It was as she bent to retrieve it that she heard voices coming from the hallway. One was evidently Mycroft's and the other ... she paused, tilting her head to catch the deep tones. Relaxing a little, she rubbed her eyes. Sherlock was back. _Thank goodness_. Perhaps it had been the closing of the front door that had awakened her.

It also meant that there would probably be some fresh tea on the go and though she wasn't particular desperate for a cup, sharing a warm space with the two brothers was an attractive idea. Walking soundlessly through the open doors in her socked feet, Ellis headed towards the kitchen. About to round the corner of the main passage to head along to the warmth and light, she heard something that made her stop in her tracks.

… _a good night for truths, don't you? Have you fallen in love with her despite Kit's amateurish attempts at matchmaking or because of it?_

Ellis felt her eyes widen of their own accord. _What?_ The sudden pounding of her heart in her ears deafened her momentarily, but then she caught another thread of conversation… _I have found myself thinking seriously about Ellis Wilde a great deal in recent days …_

She shouldn't listen. She should not listen. Ellis knew that she really shouldn't, yet the electrical shock of her pulse and her sudden breathlessness refused to let her feet move. In any direction. Mycroft Holmes admitting to his brother that he had feelings for her? Was it true? Good god. She shouldn't listen … and yet she did.

And thus Ellis Wilde became the third person in the world to whom Mycroft Holmes, albeit unintentionally, revealed his true vampiric genesis.

Frozen in her socks at the corner of the main passage in the Pall Mall house, the Historian held her breath and wondered if it were possible to explode from sheer astonishment.

###

It was time.

Though traffic never entirely stopped in London no matter the time of night, at this point, in the very small hours, in the bitterly cold darkness of a British winter, there was an odd sense of silence. Most of the great city was asleep or at least, securely locked indoors with their central heating and wide-screen televisions and quietly snoring dogs.

Most people, though clearly not all.

Pulling on his second leather glove, Mycroft took a long and thoughtful glance around the kitchen where he had spent so many wonderful hours with his family … with Kit and Sherlock. And now Kit was gone, taken from him by the malevolence that was Daveth. His eyes flickered across to Sherlock who was likewise donning gloves and his scarf and packing each of his pockets very carefully with an unwrapped gift for the creature they were about to face.

Only minutes ago, Mycroft had sped silently back through to the library where he stood in the doorway, checking to see that Ellis was still asleep. Still in the same chair as before, she had changed her position a little, curling herself up even tighter, the quilted silk wrapped closely around her face and head. But her breathing was soft and slow and she gave no sign of waking. He inhaled gently, not so much to breathe, but to catch the fragrance of her, the perfume of her hair and skin. Perhaps Sherlock was right. Perhaps he had developed an affection for this woman who reminded him so much of an ancient lover. He blinked snake-like. With luck, he'd be back here in time to be around for her waking and perhaps he could find out. If luck decided not to make an appearance, then there was a brief note for Ellis on the kitchen table with explicit instructions as to what she should do. He rather hoped he'd be able to destroy the note without her ever seeing it, but there was no harm in being prepared.

"Shall we?" Sherlock's baritone, though soft, filled the space between them. The younger man's face held no sense of fear, though they both knew there was a significant possibility that neither of them would make it back.

Walking noiselessly to the front door, Mycroft patted the solid frame once as he turned the key in the lock, enabling him to shut the thing almost without a sound. It was foolishly sentimental to bid farewell to a house, but in his mind, he did it anyway.

The night air was barely above freezing and the surface of the concrete pavement was crisp and hard beneath the soles of their shoes as their footsteps echoed in tandem. There was no point in attempting to disguise the sound as they were planning on meeting the only man who might want to attack them.

Turning left out of the house, they headed east along the deserted pavement passing tall modern buildings of glass and steel and much older dwellings of Portland stone and red brick. Almost all the windows were black, with only a few bright yellow lights gleaming out into the cold London darkness. Walking in perfect step, the two Holmes brothers paused outside number eighty-three Pall Mall, a stunning old building. They paused as Mycroft looked up at the grand architecture.

"Used to be Lady Ranelagh's house, this one," he mused. "The War Office took it over in 1906 and I was given my very own office up there," he nodded towards one of the higher floors. "At one point I considered constructing a rooftop stairway to enable me to reach home without ever needing to descend to street-level," he smiled at the reminiscence. "Fun was had by all."

Tugging his gloves on a little harder, Mycroft stepped left again, around the corner of the building he had known since the very first brick had been laid nearly four hundred years before. Sherlock was immediately at his side and once more, their strides were perfectly matched as they marched down the road leading to The Park. It was precisely two a.m.

###

Ellis blinked and stirred cautiously as she heard faint footsteps heading down the passage towards the front door. It seemed that the plan that Sherlock and Mycroft had discussed earlier was not, after all, a thing of fiction and fantasy, but real and solid and horrifying. She had waited, tense and unsleeping in the library, knowing that Mycroft would probably come and check on her to ensure she was still asleep and she took pains to give him that precise impression.

As soon as her straining ears caught the sounds of the main door being closed, she flung the blanket from her, pulling off her socks even as she ran down the passage towards the door with her boots in her other hand. Sitting by the Hall table, she pulled her boots back on her bare feet with a shiver. Then she pulled the socks on over the boots; she wanted no sound giving her away on the hard pavements.

Throwing her coat on and shoving hands into heavy gloves, Ellis took a deep breath, opened the front door of the Pall Mall house and stepped out into the night. She knew exactly where Mycroft and Sherlock were planning to go and what they were planning to do. And they were going to need her help.


	19. in which two lives are taken.

The chill night air was as silent as it ever was in London, though in this part of the city the silence was enough for Sherlock to imagine he could hear the sound of his own heartbeat, impossible though that was. His pulse was beating so hard in his ears that he could hear it even over the sound of his footsteps on the hard pavement. _Pulsatile tinnitus_ due to the rapid increase in blood-flow throughout the body likely as a result of increased stress. _Interesting_. He'd never experienced such an awareness before, but then, he'd never felt like he'd been walking to his death before, either. The odd sensation would go. One way or another.

There was a fair amount of empty parking spaces around the buildings lining St James's Square; most of the people who worked in them didn't live in them, so the daily exodus had left a significant expanse of empty tarmac. This might be helpful if they needed to run back to the Pall Mall house for example, though after the meeting with Daveth, there'd be no need to run. Either they would have won or they'd be dead.

Mycroft was experiencing a mixture of feelings on this cold London night. Deep relief of a sort that he would finally be able to come to grips with the monster he'd attempted to eradicate nearly thirty years before. There was also a sense of great satisfaction that at least he'd have the opportunity to mete out some restitution for Kit's brutal demise; whatever happened tonight, Daveth would not be leaving the encounter untouched. Sherlock's idea to use a modified form of vampire blood was inventive, though Mycroft had little doubt the meeting would soon degenerate into brute physical violence; it was the only thing that Daveth seemed to comprehend. He would protect Sherlock at all costs, even if it meant a final act of self-sacrifice. Two thousand years was a pretty good run, all things considered. Other than Kit's death and the inability to stay longer with Ellis, he had few regrets. Perhaps they might all meet up again when the stars were in their favour. He felt the cold air cool against the skin of his face and the smell of frost on the pavement rose from beneath his feet. He would be sad to leave the world and all that London had come to mean to him, but he was neither immortal nor unrealistic. Death would be done tonight.

To all intents and purposes, the Holmes brothers were out in the locale taking a bracing, though rather late-night constitutional around St James's Park. All the CCTV camera footage would ever show was the two of them striding out briskly towards the gardens ... Mycroft had taken care to ensure that whatever the outcome of tonight's _rendezvous_ , there would be no record for the police to pick over. This would not the sort of meeting the general public ever needed to see.

With less than fifty yards to the main park gate, Sherlock stopped abruptly.

Uncertain of the reason, Mycroft likewise stopped. "Problem?"

Meeting the old vampire's gaze, Sherlock extended a hand. "Whatever happens, it has been an honour to know you and, despite our intermittent differences, I want to thank you for ... everything," he said. "I am grateful, Mycroft."

Even in the dark, he was able to hear the deeper message. _I love you too, my son._ Taking the outstretched hand, Mycroft gripped it hard. "Trust that we will prevail, my boy," he spoke softly, nodding as he gripped the younger man's arm. "Now we have a job to do. Remember to wait for my signal."

Without another word, both Holmes' returned to their former path, not bothering to pause as they swung open the unlocked gate and stepped out together into the middle of the gardens.

The grass was dark in the limited moonlight, though a shimmer of frost crunched beneath their shoes. As far as Sherlock could observe, theirs were the only footprints on the near freezing ground. Was it possible that he had mistaken the place of meeting? Or had Daveth had changed his mind? For almost two entire seconds, Sherlock experienced a mild alarm that Daveth had lured them here only so that he might attack again elsewhere. His concern was short-lived.

"I was uncertain whether you would come or no, _Mycurrought_ ," Daveth's rumbled words emerged from the shadows before he did. "I wondered if it might be necessary to break another of your ... _toys_."

It was only the certain knowledge that Daveth sought his anger that kept Mycroft silent. Possibly the only thing that might make the difference between success, or a swift and certain death, was his ability to _think_. He could not allow mere words to distract him at this juncture. There would be time later to consider vengeance... assuming there actually was a _later_.

Despite himself, Sherlock experienced a fleeting spinal shiver in the realisation he was finally about to face another creature like Mycroft. Another deathless wanderer among the centuries. Though his hands itched to reach for the vials of vampire blood that waited within his pockets, the part of his mind that remained cool and clinical evaluated the situation. Mycroft's plan, though basic, was strong because of its simplicity. He would wait to do his part as they had agreed.

It appeared Mycroft's nemesis had come to the meeting alone; there was neither sight nor sound of an accomplice, though it was still possible that others waited in the deeper shadows. There was little point dwelling on that eventuality; if Daveth had brought supporters, even human ones, then Mycroft's battle plan was likely doomed to fail and with it, both their chances of any continued existence.

"You are waning, Daveth," Mycroft stood comfortably beyond the shade of the trees, both hands clasped loosely in front of him. "I doubt you will walk these lands much longer, whatever happens tonight."

"You may be right, but I will live long enough to finish what must be done," the shadows parted to allow a huge shambling figure to approach them in the centre of the grassy park.

"And what is that?" Mycroft was smoothly urbane. He might have been taking tea with the Prime Minister's wife. "For what foolishness have I been summonsed here this night?"

"Why, for your _destruction_ , of course," Daveth halted a handful of yards away and straightened up into an almost vertical stance, the horrific scars on his face and hands clearly visible even in the dim light. "And you have so considerately brought your other toy with you," he stared across at Sherlock, his grin vile and twisted. "To save me the further effort. That is most thoughtful of you."

"You are sick and broken," Mycroft's voice dropped low until it was a cold, bleak thing that slithered in the night. "You will die soon, alone and unmourned. Your body with moulder to dust and be spread to unknown places by the four winds. You have done your last wickedness and soon not even I will remember you."

" _Ahh_ , Mycurrought!" Daveth laughed roughly, almost choking with amusement. "You were never so mirthsome in your fighting days ..." his laughter trailed away. "But the time for mirth is done, and now you will die. Both of you."

Widening his stance, he opened his long heavy coat and withdrew a plain sword of steel. Utterly unrefined, this was no damascened rapier of Ancient Arabia, but a viciously sharp Roman _Gladius_ with only one possible purpose. Even in the dark, Sherlock could see the shadows of dried blood on it. This was very likely the weapon involved in dismembering the bodies in the recent killings that still had the Met so confused.

"So predictable, Daveth," Mycroft shook his head sadly, unmoved and unmoving.

"You will not even defend yourself?" the ancient vampire drew himself up, a frown on his brow as if he suspected all might not be as it seemed. Mycurrought of Isca, one of the greatest generals the land had ever seen ... accepting defeat so easily? Despite his damaged mind, Daveth suspected trickery of some kind.

"Do your worst; it will only hasten your final death," Mycroft hadn't moved a muscle.

At his shoulder, Sherlock tensed in readiness but stood equally still.

"That may be, but I will not be the one who leaves this world _first_ ," Daveth roared, raising the sword high above his head as he lumbered forward, charging the two men who even now stood motionless.

At almost the last moment, there was a blur of movement as Mycroft twisted sideways like a matador, wrenching a slim black item from each of his coat pockets.

One was an evil-looking expandable baton which instantly became two feet of brute power. The other was the unsheathed Japanese tantō whose short flat blade glinted white-fire in the scudding moonlight.

Curving sideways around Daveth's charge and wielding the baton with all his might, Mycroft brought the heavy steel tip down exactly on the wrist joint holding the sword. A ghastly _crack_ told its own story as Daveth howled and dropped the sword, his momentum sending him staggering several feet further.

As he bent briefly, grasping the grievous injury with his other hand, Mycroft spun a second time, the tantō lifting high before slicing down in a vicious, unstoppable sweep.

Daveth's sword-hand fell to the dark ground, already blackening and disintegrating in decay.

Rising to his feet, Daveth's fury exploded as the pain and outrage powered him far beyond the realm of human behaviour or ability. He truly was the monster now, with only the barest remnants of humanity giving him form.

Twirling the baton until it cut through the night air, vibrating the very molecules around him, Mycroft's face was as alive as Sherlock had ever seen it. There was a clear light in his eyes, the light of battle, as he paced slowly around the wounded vampire who had created him.

"I had no hatred for you Daveth, "Mycroft's voice was low and deadly. "But you have forced me to do what I have never sought to do and because I am a soldier, I will do you this last service with all the skill that is in me."

Dark blood oozing from the stump of his arm, Daveth bent to collect his sword with his remaining hand. "You will die now, Mycurrought," he snarled, beginning to weave a lethal network of cuts and slices with the blade at such speed that it was impossible for anyone to get close or survive its assault. Mycroft back slowly away, the baton and knife held down and away from his body, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It was at that moment that Sherlock, now stationed behind the effectively one-armed vampire, drew the MK23 from his pocket and calmly shot Daveth in the back of his right ankle, obliterating the Achilles tendon and causing the huge creature to slump awkwardly to his knees, his entire right side now irreparably weakened.

Before they'd left the house, Sherlock had questioned Mycroft's direction that he shoot to maim rather than to kill. Why a bullet in the ankle? Why not the entire chamber of ten rounds in the brain?

"According to all data I have been able to piece together, including the testimony of Daveth himself, nothing but fire or sword or the depths of the earth itself would have any permanent effect on one of us," Mycroft had shaken his head. "We need to render him impotent, bring him down, enabling me to deliver the _coup de gras_."

"And what of the body?" Sherlock's eyebrows had risen in clinical interest. "Have you got your people ready to drag it away from human eyes?"

"I have never witnessed the death of one of my own, so I have no clear understanding of what may happen to the body once Daveth is dead. We will cross that bridge once we reach it," he had smiled lightly, but there had been a grim undertone in his expression.

And now, as the giant hulk of their enemy slumped to the ground, Sherlock reached into his other pocket and dragged out one of the huge syringes. Flicking the plastic tip away he strode over, plunging the entire contents deep into the back of Daveth's neck. Given Mycroft's earlier instructions, it was unlikely that this concoction would actually kill the beast, but it might slow him down, however there was no discernible effect.

With a bellicose roar, Daveth clambered to his feet, and though his right arm was essentially useless and his right leg now barely more than a prop, he still held his sword up, grinning, knowing that his enemies now had to come to _him_. He would have them yet.

Circling his virtually immobile antagonist, Mycroft twirled his baton more thoughtfully. The report of the gunshot would have been heard; it was only a matter of time now before someone came to investigate. Daveth had to die quickly.

But Mycroft wanted his sword.

It would be final and fitting for the monster who had created him and who had taken his dearest friend to perish by his own blade. It had also been a central part of his plan as Mycroft knew no other type of weapon would be suited to the unmaking of a vampire.

And he would have it.

Considering the best way to marshal their combined forces, Mycroft was distracted by the faint sound of footsteps, their approach soft as though muffled. This was a faster investigation than he had anticipated; the gunshot must have attracted someone on the nearby street. Glancing at Sherlock, he nodded towards the open gate.

"Keep them away until the job is finished, Sherlock," he murmured, steadying the baton and stepping towards Daveth's broken figure.

"Stop!" Ellis's voice cut clear through the night. "You need fire; only fire will do the job completely!"

"Another of your pretty little playthings, Mycurrought?" Daveth's harsh voice gravelled. "Will she tend my ills as I drain her dry, I wonder?" he laughed hoarsely.

"Leave now, Doctor Wilde," Mycroft kept his eyes on Daveth even though his words were directed at Ellis. "There is nothing here for you this night. _Leave!_ "

"I heard you back at the house, Mycroft," Ellis stood her ground by the gate, even though Sherlock refused to let her through. "I heard every word you said about having to destroy a vampire," she added. "And about you being one yourself. I heard it all and I'm telling you that only fire will do what you want."

"And you have brought such a facility?" Sherlock looked down into her eyes, assessing the historian's state of mind.

"Yes, I have," she said, nodding. "Let me through, Sherlock; there's nothing to hide from me now."

Thinking for a moment, he pushed the gate wide. "Then come and join the party," he said. "Stand behind us at all times."

"Sherlock?" Mycroft watched in disbelief as his ward opened the gate and allowed Ellis through. _She could not see this_. She could not bear witness to the death of a vampire by another vampire!

"Too late, Mycroft," Ellis spoke softly as she walked closer. "I know your secret now and I understand the mysteries behind you. I finally understand."

"You understand _nothing_ ," Mycroft kept his eyes on Daveth. "If you value our friendship, you will leave this place _now_."

"If you want me to leave, I shall," Ellis was standing no more than two feet behind his shoulder. "But I want you to have this first," she said, extending a hand in which she held a moderate-sized glass bottle.

The smell was enough to explain its contents. A deeply resinous, oily tang with overtones of wax and linseed oil. The reason the smell was so pervasive was because the cap had been removed and a cord of twisted white cotton shoved deep inside with no more than an inch or so of fabric left dangling beyond the bottle itself. A rudimentary Molotov cocktail. He also recognised the bottle.

"My book-cover polish?"

"Ammonia and beeswax; mineral oil, almond and coconut oils," she held the bottle up in the dim light. "Trust me when I claim to have read a great deal about the cleansing properties of fire," she said. "And you need to destroy the evidence, don't you?"

_What was she saying? How could she say these things? How did she know!?_

"Let me," Sherlock was beside them, taking the bottle gently from her hand. "I promised myself the satisfaction of ending Kit's killer, and now I shall," he added, fumbling inside his jacket for a lighter.

"And so you would have me perish without honour, Mycurrought?" Daveth muttered balefully, still hanging onto his sword. "You lack even the courage to see me die by the blade as was always the way in our time?"

"You lost your honour centuries ago, Daveth," Mycroft met his Maker's stare. "I have little care for your passing except that it should be final. You will plague this country no longer." Turning his head fractionally towards Ellis he told her to stand away from them. It was only when he saw her move several feet off back and to the side that he returned his full focus to Daveth.

"Now, Sherlock," Mycroft moved into a fighting stance.

Flicking a small flame into being, Sherlock applied it to the edge of the white material, watching as the flame fed and grew. He needed to throw the bottle hard enough for it to smash.

"This is for my mother, you _bastard_ ," he whispered, drawing his arm back before hurling it squarely at Daveth's right shoulder. The vampire could not move swiftly enough to avoid it, nor could he use his right hand to bat it away. The bottle shattered completely, spreading the thick liquid contents everywhere. It splattered and clung across and down the length of his body, soaking deep into the fabric of his clothing.

The flames took hold swiftly and Mycroft readied his weapons, as did Sherlock his gun. If Daveth was to make a final assault, it would be now. He would come directly at them.

But he didn't.

Instead, with utter disregard for the flames coating his body, even as the fire flared up into his face, his eyes, his hair, Daveth screamed inhumanely, long white fangs descending, marking him as the beast he had become.

And he charged directly at Ellis.

There was no elegance to his stride, just sheer bullish power and speed. Prepared for a further attack on themselves, Mycroft was, for a scant second, taken off guard. And in that second, Daveth was past him and had Ellis in his clutches, his fangs already buried deep in her throat.

So swift was the attack, Ellis had not been able to scream before being borne to the ground in a killing embrace; she was already fatally wounded before Mycroft and Sherlock had been able to react, her clothing beginning to catch fire as Daveth raised his blood-spattered face to laugh one last time. As he was about to utter some final words on the ineffability of fate, Mycroft claimed the dropped sword and swept Daveth's head cleanly from his neck. It dropped and rolled onto the grass where it continued to burn, just as the remains of his carcass was kicked to one side as both Mycroft and Sherlock pulled Ellis's body from beneath the rapidly corrupting corpse. The few flames on her clothes were easy to smother, but it was clear her injuries were mortal. Holding her in his arms, Mycroft was deaf to the approaching sound of sirens; clearly someone had called the police.

 _Ellis_. She couldn't die a second time. It wasn't right ... _it wasn't fair_.

" _Ellis_ ... can you hear me? Can you ..." he closed his eyes momentarily to the sight and scent of blood all around him. "I'll get you to a hospital my darling Ellis," he groaned, lifting her in his arms as he got to his feet. "Hold on, my dearest ..."

" _Mycroft_ ," Sherlock rested a hand on the older man's arm. "It's no good. She's already lost too much blood to stand the shock. No hospital can help her now ..."

Turning on his child with a savage snarl, Mycroft's face was wild, his skin darkened with the blood still pumping slowly from the unspeakable wounds at Ellis's throat.

"She cannot die! _I will not have her die!_ "

Gripping Ellis more tightly in his arms, Mycroft ran for his house. He ran faster that he had ever done in his life, faster than he had ever thought he could. It was as if death itself was snapping at his heels and he ran in through his front door and up to his own bedroom when he knew Ellis would be safe. She would be safe here, in his arms. She could not die if she were in his arms, could she? She would not be so cruel as to leave him now; just as she held his heart in her hands ... _she could not die_. He felt his face wet with impossible tears.

"Ellis, my darling ... don't leave me alone again, I beg you." He closed his eyes in agony. It was his fault she was dying. He had not been able to save Kit and now he was losing Ellis too. _His fault_.

He felt the faintest of touches and realised Ellis had lifted a hand to brush the side of his face. Clutching the hand, he kissed the palm, pressing it to the dampness of his eyes.

"I'm so sorry my darling," he whispered. "I'm so terribly sorry."

There was an indistinct gasping as Ellis tried to speak, but her throat was too damaged for words. Instead Mycroft felt the hand on his face edge closer towards his mouth where the tip of her thumb brushed across the edge of his teeth. He felt the slightest of pressure from her hand as she guided his mouth downwards.

Could this be? _Was this what she wanted?_

"Ellis ... do you want me to make you whole again ..." Mycroft paused, frantically scanning her narrowed, fading eyes. "Do you want me to make you as I am? My darling I need a sign from you ... I need to know this is what you want me to do ... Can you blink?"

Choking, her breath halting. She blinked once. Definitely, _unquestionably_ , before her breathing grew suddenly ragged and there was no more air for her lungs or for her heart.

Ellis Brite Wilde died in the arms of Mycroft Holmes.

With burning eyes, he permitted himself finally to be the vampire he had always chosen to deny. His fangs lengthening, he embraced the woman he had loved for two thousand years and brought her into his world for ever.

###

It was dark when I awoke. There was no light or sound. I was lying on something relatively soft that smelled of washing powder and lavender. It was a scent I had somehow always associated with Kit. _Poor Kit_. Clearly I was lying in a bed in Kit's house.

 _In Mycroft's house_.

But what on earth was I doing here? I'd accepted an offer to stay the previous night ...

 _The previous night_.

The park ... the awful, horrible things that had happened in the park with that terrible creature ...

It was all a bit too much. Sleep seemed a far more attractive proposition.

I slept.

###

Mycroft had done everything he could think to do. He had washed the blood from Ellis's body and from the gold of her hair, combing it out until it gleamed against the clean white sheets and pillowcases he'd brought out from Kit's laundry; the previous set had been drenched in blood. He would not have Ellis wake to such a thing as that and had remade the bed around her in the dark as she slept.

Sherlock had phoned before he returned to the house, even though he eventually stayed only briefly. By the time the police had arrived at the park, Daveth's remains had degraded to such a point where they were unrecognisably human. It was as if someone had emptied out the sludge from an old settling tank. The smell was rank, but there was little worry of discovery. By the time dawn came around, there would be almost nothing left for anyone to see. He had already deposited Mycroft's Japanese knife and Daveth's Gladius in the library's secret room.

"How is she?" Sherlock asked eventually, sipping scotch. He felt utterly drained.

"You assume Ellis is still alive?" Mycroft studied his glass.

Throwing the older man a sceptical look, Sherlock blinked slowly. "How _is_ she?"

"As far as I can tell, she's as well as can be expected," Mycroft sighed wearily. "I only have my own personal experience to go on, of course, but things seemed to be ... as expected," he swallowed deep from his drink. "I have no idea how she will feel when she finally wakens."

"Which will be ..?"

"Tonight sometime, I hope," Mycroft rubbed a hand across his face. "I don't know the protocols for this sort of thing, so I've improvised."

"Improvised?" Sherlock smiled.

"I'll tell you about it if it works," Mycroft stretched his long body in the chair. "Where's that second syringe of my blood?" he asked. "It needs to be destroyed."

"I have it still," Sherlock's eyes gleamed momentarily. "I'll deal with it appropriately."

"Yes," Mycroft's tone was dry. "I'm sure you will. Just don't use it to make any immortal frogs or rats, will you? There's enough problems in the world without having that on my conscience."

"No frogs, rats or any other creature," Sherlock promised. "Though with your permission, I should like to use it in some of my experiments ... it has the most uncanny abilities to overcome every human cell ... what might an atrophied strain be capable of? Curing cancer?" he shrugged.

"The use it with my blessing. You should rest now," he added. "You're most welcome to stay here if you wish."

"Thank you, but I think three would definitely be a crowd here tonight," Sherlock stood. "I've been offered a spare bed by a woman who rents out flats in central London," he said. "I'm helping her dispose of a criminal husband and she feels obliged to look after me in return," he smiled again. "It probably won't lead anywhere, but I'll give you some privacy for as long as I can. _Laters_."

After completing all the tasks he had set himself, Mycroft took himself into the Drawing room with a large glass of his favoured vodka and began to play. Anything. _Everything_. _Bach_ , _Brahms, Beethoven_. Polkas and waltzes and mazurkas; his favourite operatic arias. Anything to stave off the silence in the house. Yet there was a strange lightness in his heart that belied the seriousness of the moment even though there was still the agonising question that would not be answered until night fell.

And then he would see what there was to be seen.

###

I surfaced again.

This time I felt more immediately awake, barely drowsy at all. It was still dark but I could see it was the dark of true night. Someone had been in and opened the long curtains at the window. The faint lights beyond were surprisingly more than enough to show me the contents of the room I was in. Everything was oddly clear.

A bedroom. A bedroom with a very big bed that I had apparently been lying in since ... _I had no idea how long I have been in this bed_. Sitting up, I saw I was wearing some kind of long dark nightgown affair. By the feel of the fabric and the stitch count, I was immediately fairly sure it was high Victorian needlework on silk ... wait a tick.

How could I tell the stitch count in the dark with only my fingertips?

Leaving that oddness for the moment, I realised I felt like getting up, in fact what I was starting to feel like was something very strange. I wasn't giddy. There wasn't any pain, I didn't hurt. I wasn't tired or hungry or thirsty.

And yet I vaguely remembered ... _something_.

I touched my throat. There was something I needed to remember ... something about a fight ... there was a fight and I ... I had been involved somehow.

But it was all fuzzy and distant, as if it was a long time ago, even though I was sure it had been, when? Only last night? The night before? _What was it I couldn't remember?_

Perhaps there might be someone else in the house who could clear up the things I simply could not hold in my head.

There was a bedside lamp and I stretched over, brushing against a soft piece of velvet as I flicked on the small switch, almost blinded by the brightness of the sudden light. I switched it off again until I had tilted the lampshade away from me. This time, the light was a little more acceptable, though it was still far too bright for comfort.

My eyes were immediately taken with the beautiful hand-sewn silk bedspread that someone had pulled over my head as I slept. It was far too glamourous a thing to use as a mere piece of bedding; it was a museum-piece and should be ... hang on. _This was more oddness_.

The velvet I'd felt as I'd reached for the light turned out to be a small bag, gathered at the top by a pull string. The bag was heavy; far heavier than such a small thing had any right to be. Inside there was a large handful of gold coins. Solid gold half-sovereigns from the mid-1880s. Big and shiny and beautiful; each one of these had to be worth a small fortune.

I slipped out of the big soft bed and headed immediately for the door which was clearly in the room even in the dark. I felt perfectly warm and in no need of any additional robe, besides, the gown I was wearing was of heavy silk and brushed the floor; it was unlikely my appearance would shock anyone I might meet.

As I walked along the hallway to the top of the staircase, I heard the most divine piano music. It filled up the spaces in the house and I could almost feel the air around me vibrate with the rich chords. There was only one person I knew who might play like that, which explained why I'd been asleep in his house.

Though I still wasn't entirely sure why I had been asleep in Mycroft's house wearing a Victorian nightgown and with a bag of gold coins left on the bedside table. Just another strange thing to question. As I headed downstairs I vaguely realised I was barefoot. I always took slippers with me when I stayed away from home and had no idea why I would be without them. There was something almost dreamlike about this whole situation, but the piano music continued and so I entered the room it was coming from.

The music stopped and he turned to face me.

I saw his eyes widen and he seemed ... oddly nervous, though I had no idea why. He stood, stepping towards me, clearly anxious about something. He seemed to be watching my every move, scanning my face for the slightest information.

"Hello, Mycroft," I smiled. "I heard you playing. It was wonderful."

"You are feeling ... well?"

"Very well, though my brain's gone a bit fuzzy. Did I drink too much last night? I don't have a hangover, but everything is woozy and ... and I can't remember clearly. If I embarrassed myself, I'm terribly sorry."

He seemed to relax a little; he stood straighter and his shoulders went back and down. "You don't remember last night at all?" he asked, taking my hand and drawing me towards a richly covered sofa that I seemed to recall was important to me ... but it was unclear why.

"Tell me what you do remember, my dear Ellis," Mycroft sat beside me, his face clearly concerned. _God_. _What on earth happened last night?_ It must have been pretty major, whatever it was.

_What did I actually remember?_

"I think there might have been a fight of some kind and I was involved somehow, though it all feels like a dream," I said, shaking my head. "I remember it was dark ... and I think I was outside ... _somewhere_ ..." I shrugged. That was the extent of my recollection. "What happened?" I asked. "There was obviously more to it than I can remember or else I wouldn't be wearing this," I gestured to the silk gown, "asleep in your house," I paused as his face tensed. He was starting to worry me. "What happened, Mycroft? Why am I here like this? Why can't I remember what happened?"

He was still staring at me as if I was going to vanish in a puff of smoke. Then he sighed and looked down to where his hand was still holding mine.

"There's a lot I have to tell you and some of it is going to be a shock," he said. "I don't know if your memory will return in time or if you have lost that information forever, but either way, none of this is going to be easy. For either of us."

He sounded so solemn and grave that I almost laughed.

"Mycroft, did we both get drunk last night and get married?" I couldn't help but smile at him, this man for whom I had developed a very specific feeling. I just wish I remembered what had happened between us.

"Here," he said, tugging my hand until I stood. He pulled me gently out into the long hallway until we approached the main front door. There was a tall mirror on the wall just there and he had me stand in front of it while he went to turn on some more lights.

The lights came on, still a little too bright for me, but I squinted at my reflection as this was obviously what he wanted me to do.

And then I saw.

I saw myself, but the me in the mirror was someone vastly different to the self I remembered. I forgot all about the brightness of the lights.

My skin had always been pale with freckles, but now ... _now_ I looked like I was made of porcelain and my freckles had faded into the merest memory of themselves. My lips seemed darker and my eyes ... whether it was the bright lights or not, my eyes were wide and bright and their pale blue had become an extraordinary cerulean. And my hair ... Thick and golden-red, it coiled itself heavily around my face.

And then Mycroft stood directly behind me so that I was staring at both our reflections simultaneously.

And then I saw.

And I remembered. My hand raised to rest against my throat of its own volition.

And I knew what it was that was so concerning him, this man whom I had come to love. This wonderful, marvellous, ageless man. This vampire.

As now was I.

I, _vampire_.

###

 

**The End**

 

My grateful thanks to everyone who has left feedback on this story which has taken over a year to conclude. I've had several people ask what's going to happen next, but I'm not sure if there should be another section, or if the story has already run its course. Either way, it has been a wonderful experience writing something that enabled me to take my time and go into as much detail as I wanted without feeling rushed.

Onwards and upwards!


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